Binary Star
by Bazylia de Grean
Summary: "But that's what we are: a soldier and her commanding officer. We had a war to win, there was no time for friendship." "There might be now." / Winning was the easy part, all right; what comes after that is much harder. There is a galaxy to rebuild, but first Shepard has to pick up the pieces and pull herself together again. Post-ME3.
1. Prelude

Author's note:

Binary star definition from Wikipedia (slightly edited). Mass Effect belongs to Bioware.

This is a post-ME3 fanfic, mostly canon-compliant, but slightly AU when it comes to some, usually minor, details.

Chapter titles are definitions derived from physics and astronomy.

.

I'd like to thank Selene for talking me into writing this ff, continuously motivating me to finish this, consulting some plot aspects and bravely enduring the so called creative process (than means bearing with countless texts concerning one or another insignificant plot detail).

* * *

_/Codex entry: Binary star_

_A __**binary star**__ is a star system consisting of two stars orbiting around their common centre of mass. The brighter star is called the primary and the other is its companion star, comes /ˈkoʊmiːz/, or secondary. Research proves that many stars are part of either binary star systems or star systems with more than two stars, called multiple star systems_.

_The term double star may be used synonymously with binary star, but more generally, a double star may be either a binary star or an optical double star which consists of two stars with no physical connection, but which appear close together in the sky as seen from the Earth._

_Binary stars are classified into four types according to the way in which they are observed:_

_1. visually, by observation;_

_2. spectroscopically, by periodic changes in spectral lines;_

_3. photometrically, by changes in brightness caused by an eclipse;_

_4. astrometrically, by measuring a deviation in a star's position caused by an unseen companion._

_Any binary star can belong to several of these classes; for example, several spectroscopic binaries are also eclipsing binaries._

_A binary star system whose component stars are so close that they touch each other or have merged to share their gaseous envelopes is called a contact binary. Contact binaries are sometimes confused with common envelopes. However, whereas the latter refers to a dynamically unstable phase in binary evolution which either expels the stellar envelope or merges the binary in a timescale of months to years, the first describes a stable configuration of two touching stars in a binary with a typical lifetime of millions to billions of years./_

.

..

...

..

.

She stirs as the comm cracks and hums. Is someone calling her?

"_All fleets! The Crucible is armed! I repeat, the Crucible is armed. Disengage and head to the rendezvous point._"

It is difficult to believe they made it, that this is over. She tries to move, but it proves impossible.

"_Shepard?_"There is an edge to the voice. Worry. "_Commander!_"

"I..." She tries to speak, but no sound comes out. Her throat is too dry, her head spins, her muscles ache, her right hand is warm with drying blood and when she attempts to open her eyes an inferno erupts beneath her eyelids. Each breath burns, and she feels the weight of rubble pinning her body to the ground. It takes all her strength to make her whisper audible. "I'm... here... It's... Shepard... Here..."

"_Commander Shepard?_"

"Sir?..."

"_Commander?_" The question in quiet, the voice having lost all its force. Tired. Defeated.

"Admiral?..." She curses the damn comm, willing it to work, for this last time. "Admiral Hackett!"

There is no answer.

_Dammit. Dammit! _The adrenaline is worn out by now, and all the fear and stress of the last hours crush upon her. The realisation sets in slowly: she will die here. Wounded, alone. And it will take time. She bites her lip. _Dammit..._ After all the times she has pushed her luck to the limits, it has finally run out. This is the end. Tears prickle at her eyes.

The comm cracks again.

"_I repeat, disengage and get the hell out of here._" There is steel in his voice again. "_Damn it, Moreau, that was a bloody order!_"

But they made it. Thank God, they made it. Soon they will be away from the Crucible, somewhere safer, maybe even safe. _Alive_. The price she is paying is fair.

"And... not to... yield..." she whispers, just before she slips into the merciful darkness.

...

The darkness seems soft and floating around her, like an ocean, and she is drowning. She tries to move again, but it feels as if her mind is no longer connected to her body, and so she gives up, lying back into the dark and listening. There is a soft, muffled humming sound, and, from somewhere far away, echo of voices.

"_Shepard!"_

"_Stand fast, stand strong."_

"_You did good, child. You did good."_

"_It is now in your power to destroy us."_

"_Commander!"_

A blast of light pulsing underneath her eyelids. Warm liquid trickling down her temple: blood. She has to... What? She cannot remember; her thought are blurring at the edges.

Dimmed sound of footsteps, of something moving, a flash of lightning. The Crucible...

A single voice, quiet, but clear.

"_Godspeed to you, Commander."_

She has to get the Crucible working, she has to get up...

Shepard opens her eyes, and all she sees is darkness. Only then does she remember. The Crucible is destroyed, and, hopefully, the Reapers and their technology with it... She tries to get up and almost bites her tongue when a searing pain explodes along her spine. She opens her mouth in a desperate attempt to breathe... and feels air, warm, tasting slightly of smoke, but air nonetheless.

She hears footsteps again, closer.

"Over here..." She tries to shout, but her voice comes out hoarse and barely audible. "Over... here..."

Then it dawns on her. She is still on the Citadel, alone, buried under a pile of debris. The Alliance Fleet – if the Alliance has any ships left – is at the rendez-vous point. That will be... she tries in vain to remember what Hackett has mentioned about that part of the plan. _Dammit._ Frustrated, she bangs her fist on something, a metal plate, judging by the sound.

"Over here!" comes a cry. "We have a survivor here!"

"Or a trap." The second voice sounds familiar.

Shepard moves her hand again, knocking frantically at the piece of metal.

Someone lifts the debris cautiously and there is a crack as it proves too heavy and falls to the ground, a few inches from her, fortunately.

"Hey, doc, over here, quick!"

Shepard wants to protest when someone tries to help her sit up, but only a quiet moan leaves her lips. Speaking is too difficult. And probably that is all just a delusion, so why bother?

"Don't move her!" Again that familiar voice. Male, crisp. "Out of my way. What the hell happen-... Shepard?" Far older than she remembers.

"Doc?" she manages to ask, or at least thinks that was a question.

"Don't try to speak. Holy shit... Guys, help me get her up. Not get up like in up and walking, moron! Go find a door, a ceiling panel... Now! Theresa, stay with me. Do you hear me? Don't even try to fall asleep! Theresa!"

It is a formidable effort, but she opens her eyes again. Her vision is hazy, just blurred shapes in darker and lighter shades of gray, melting away at the edges. _God, I hope it's all just a delusion..._

Something is wrong with her eyes.


	2. Dispersion

**...**

**Dispersion**

**...**

Shepard wakes up slowly. The air smells faintly of smoke, and on her right something is buzzing quietly. She is lying on a bed, that much is certain. Taking a deep breath, she opens her eyes.

Everything is a dimmed shade of grey. She moves her head around slowly, a dull ache pounding in her temples. Grey, grey, dim grey everywhere. There is a vertical slash of darker shade in the endless grey somewhere to the left. A shape moves out of the shadow, becoming a vague human silhouette.

"How are you feeling, Theresa?"

"Doc?" Her voice sounds strange: she would not recognize it if she did not know she is the one who speaks. "What happened?"

The man gives out a short laugh, trying to cover slight nervousness with it. "You tell me."

"It doesn't make sense. Ouch... Dammit, my head is killing me."

"Don't try to get up, don't try to move too quickly. We'll patch you up."

"You've never been a good liar." Shepard sighs. "How did you end up here? And where... O-ouch..."

"For now, it's a makeshift hospital. Everything looks like a bloody hospital nowadays, except for those parts that look like a cemetery... Oh. Sorry."

"I've seen my share of both."

"Yeah, but I'm not supposed to have you worrying about any-..."

"Dammit, just tell me already!" She swallows a gasp of pain and puts a hand to her head. "What happened? The Reapers..."

"There ain't no more Reapers. Dunno what you did up there, Terri, but you made it. Saved the galaxy. A bloody hero, again. Now we just have some mess to clean up and it'll be fine. Eventually."

"The Fleet?"

"Somewhere." Doc shrugs, or so she guesses. "Dunno. Got out of here at some point before the big bang."

"The Citadel?"

"What's left of it is still orbiting Earth."

"Whoa, wait a moment. How did I get here?"

"How should I know? You're the engineer here. Maybe the bloody thing threw you back here just before it blew up. On when it blew up."

Shepard swallows. She remembers Doc from her past on Earth, with the Tenth Street Reds, before they went mainstream. He was about her age, dreaming of medical studies. No good with a gun, but with hands of an artist when it came to opening locks or dressing a wound. Always patching everyone up: them, after fights or shooting with another gang, street rats that came by because they could not afford a real doctor. Local kids called him Doc, and a few months later no one used his name anymore. Just Doc.

Seemed he somehow got his studies and finished them all right.

"And you? How did you get here?"

"Nothing to talk about. Left, got myself on an Alliance ship. Became an attendant, then a surgeon. You know, the usual stuff." The usual stuff phrase probably means he had stolen enough to afford a space travel before joining the Alliance. "I've always been good at patching people up."

"Speaking of patching up... How long will it take?"

Doc's silhouette whirls slowly as he turns away from her for a moment.

"We're running out of resources..."

"Doc."

"But I think we'll manage to get you something..."

"Doc!"

"Listen, Terri..."

"Bloody hell, I'm listening!"

"Sorry."

"Out with it. Now."

"You have any idea what exactly has Cerberus patched you up with? 'Cause it looks like some parts are missing."

"What?"

"You spine has more holes than Swiss cheese... Well, not literally. They're smaller, you know."

"Doc, I'm not a child." She is not certain, but can risk an educated guess: Reaper tech. Only Miranda could have an idea what exactly have they used, but considering Cerberus had access to what was left of Sovereign, the hypothesis makes sense.

"Sorry. Work habits... Your bone structure is weakened. Can't tell you much more without a more thorough examination. Clearly, your spine can't quite handle your bodyweight right now."

"Can you fix this?"

"Sort of. A nanosurgeon could try to fill those holes, but we're a bit short on staff. And stuff, too. But there are some injections I could try, and with a right kind of microweave I think we can build something to support your spine enough to let you walk."

"A med-corset?"

"Something like that. If... When we find more people."

"I can wait. It's not like I'm going anywhere. And my eyes?"

"I... don't know." Doc does not use his trademark 'dunno', and that alone is a sign it is _serious_. "I've never... seen anything like that before."

The slight hesitation in the voice of Doc – Doc, who has never hesitated when he had to take out a bullet or stitch up a wound when he ran out of stolen sedatives – is what makes her realise he does not know how to help her. Unless they find a way to contact the Fleet – if there is still a Fleet to be contacted, and if any specialist is still alive – or unless they find an ophthalmologist somewhere in the ruins of Earth, she will continue to see the world as a blurred, trembling chiaroscuro. It could have been worse. She could have end up dead. Not that being aware of it helps in any way right now.

When Doc leaves to let her rest, she falls asleep. She dreams in colour.

.

.

.

For the Alliance, everything is clear. Or rather, not clear, and that is why she finally has to fly to Earth and face the music.

"Commander, you received a message on your private terminal." Kelly repeats her usual phrase, and Shepard forces a smile while thinking of another imaginative way of getting rid of yeoman Chambers. Heavens, does anyone seriously think she is skilled enough to save the galaxy, but she needs assistance in checking her mail? Knowing Kelly is probably spying on her on behalf of Cerberus does nothing to help.

For a few seconds Shepard wonders who could it be. She broke all ties with Cerberus and the Illusive Man – not that it would stop him if he really wanted to reach her – and almost everyone in the Alliance, including Anderson, is forbidden to contact her.

There is a single message on the terminal.

— _From: Admiral Hackett_

_Commander:_

_Meet me at Arcturus on your way to Earth. I have talked with Anderson; we are getting you out of this mess._

_Hackett. —_

It is surprising somehow, but she does not begrudge the admiral for all the troubles. It was not an assignment, all he did was simply ask. Well, with a bit of persuasion, to be frank, but still, just asked. And told her straightforwardly she could refuse. Not that she ever considered it – refusing Hackett would feel strange after all the time he has been her commanding officer – but he left her the option. And, to be completely fair, there was no way he could have foreseen a simple task of breaking doctor Kenson free would turn into a decision whether or not risk the safety of the whole galaxy to save an entire system.

After Aratoht, he was angry, at first. But when she told him about the Reapers and Kenson's indoctrination, he believed her. Without proof, he believed her on her word, all evidence he needed being her history of service and the Battle of the Citadel, when he had seen Sovereign with his own eyes.

So now, when Hackett writes her he and Anderson are going to help her, she in turn believes him.

...

Shepard looks through the window of her cabin, Arcturus Station growing in her eyes as the _Normandy_ gets closer. Waiting for the trial in infuriating; she hates inactivity more than anything. She is not afraid of struggles and challenges as long as she can do anything, as long as she can actively seek solution.

The _Normandy_ is very quiet. Most of Shepard's friends are probably back home by now, and the ship feels empty. She did not want them involved, not in this. They all gave their statements about their time as members of her crew, and the precious records are all stored on her omni-tool and her personal terminal. But to make them wait for her, who knew how long, when they signed just for a single mission and had unfinished business of their own?

She tries to picture them, one by one: Tali, back on the Flotilla, returning as a hero; Garrus, home, visiting his family after years of separation; Mordin, on Sur'Kesh, immersed in some new research, or maybe on Tuchanka, working on a genophage cure for Wrex; Miranda, trying to catch on lost time with her sister.

She fingers the keyboard of her terminal absent-mindedly. What is it Hackett could not entrust to mail? She displays his message again. Short, as if he was in a hurry. Most likely, he was. Having an ex-subordinate and the first human Spectre blowing a batarian colony off the galaxy map was probably problematic.

She glances at the message again. She realises she is missing his 'Godspeed to you, Commander'. Maybe it is just her desperately looking for support and confirmation her actions are right and what she is doing has meaning, but each time the phrase reads like a sort of blessing and not just simple good-luck wishing.

On the spur of the moment, she opens the 'Create new message' panel.

— _Liara, please send me the file you have on Hackett. —_

Back then, in Shadow Broker's lair, she did not read it. Not after that talk, not after the message about first _Normandy_'s crash site. Maybe out of respect: he was the right man in the right place, efficient and never overly sentimental, but never crude either, and that were qualities she could admire. But some part of her felt as if reading that single file would be a breach of trust, his trust in her.

In the end, when Liara sends her the file, Shepard does not read it.

...

Arcturus Station is the usual whirl of motion, everyone hurrying somewhere. Shepard tries to remember the last time she was not in a hurry, and fails miserably. More than a decade ago, back on Earth, a redheaded girl, bearing no other name but simple 'Terri', used to lie back in an old warehouse, watching an ancient science-fiction serial on a stolen pad and dreaming of going up there, into the stars. Over fifteen years later, Theresa Shepard wonders if she will ever have enough time to find a place to call home.

"Commander." A well-known voice shakes her out of the reverie. Hackett gestures towards her to follow him, and she falls into step beside the admiral. "They're getting impatient, back on Earth," he says before she manages a greeting.

"I'm not quite sharing their eagerness concerning our meeting."

It takes her a while to notice they are heading to the spaceport. Noise envelops them as they enter the area: buzz of countless talks, hum of engines, high clear notes of arrivals and departures news. This is as safe and private as it can get; it is impossible to overhear anything above all the noise.

"The Hegemony wants blood. And the Council is urging us to take some action that would prevent the war. As if the Alliance didn't know it..." Hackett grimaces: a slight quirk of one corner of his mouth, moving down for a second, and then he is back his usual composed self.

"What do they want? In the Alliance?"

"Court martial, detention, you know how it goes."

"Will look wonderful in my CV."

"I won't let them," says Hackett simply.

Shepard keeps herself from staring. "Is that possible?"

"The official version: Kenson pulled the trigger. You didn't make it on time to either stop or save her."

"You would really do this, sir?"

"It doesn't really matter to her any longer, does it? And they cannot blame you for not being able to stop an insane woman."

"She wasn't..." Shepard begins and breaks off, aware that it is Hackett's acquaintance they are talking about, and he knows better than her doctor Kenson was not insane. On the other hand, he has a point. Wherever Amanda Kenson is now, she is beyond it all, and it will not bother her.

"I doubt they'll approve of the indoctrination theory," Hackett explains. He does not have to: Shepard knows trying to convince everyone of Kenson's insanity is the only way.

"The batarians won't like it."

"I will suggest reparations."

"They want a scapegoat, not money."

"Oh, the Hegemony will accept money all right."

"The Alliance won't like it either."

"I'm the head of the Alliance Navy; they don't have to like it."

"But, technically..."

"You engineers and you technicalities. Practically, I have the whole fleet behind me."

"It's not worth the effort, sir. Not really."

"Have you ever heard you're a damn symbol, Shepard?"

"Ah, yes, a symbol... Once or twice."

"Well, you are. And so is this ship."

She glances at the admiral. Hackett is looking down, his hands resting lightly against the railing. He is watching the _Normandy_.

"Feeling a little bit guilty, sir?" She intends it to be a friendly, only half-serious question.

"A bit". Hackett's answer is serious.

"But that was a request, not an order."

"People usually tend not to deny my requests. I tend to use it."

"It doesn't work on me."

"Hell no."

"Okay. A little." Shepard shakes her head. "It's fine. I don't care for court martial and whatever the Alliance thinks about my actions all that much when we almost have a whole fleet of Reapers breathing down our backs."

"You don't care what they think, mhm? And that's probably the reason you left Cerberus, taking their top-tech ship with you and all but gave it to the Alliance."

"You, sir, are a goddamn..." Shepard reconsiders. "Apologies."

"I've heard worse." Hackett turns to her, no trace of anger on his face. More like a hint of amusement, but it fades so quickly she is not certain it has been there at all. "Earth is calling."

"Yes."

"Learn the official version by heart, Commander. You'll have to be convincing."

"But the reports?"

"You have the only report. And still some time to rewrite it."

"Thank you, sir."

"I owe you." Hackett explains, offering his hand, and Shepard grasps it briefly. "Godspeed to you, Commander."


	3. Relic Radiation

**...**

**Relic Radiation**

**...**

When Shepard raises her hand to her face, her skin seems to be smelling of smoke. She feels a slight movement of air: ventilation, or a broken wall? Away, or maybe outside, someone shouts a command she is not quite able to catch.

She hears quiet steps by her bedside.

"It's all right, Doc, I'm awake."

"How are you feeling today, Terri? Damn. Sorry. Stupid question."

Shepard forces a smile. "I remember worse. How is... what is... who... Dammit. Would 'what's going on' question make sense?"

"I guess. We're trying to... well, organise anything, I suppose. Not many are left. Well, more than we hoped for, but it will take time to assess the damages, to fill up the casualties lists. To clean all the mess. We don't even really know where to start."

Inwardly, Shepard sighs. But no one ever said this was supposed to be easy. Winning was the easy part, all right; what came after was much harder. No medals, no triumphant sound of proverbial trumpets, none of that. Looking for survivors among the rubble, repairing hips with remains of other destroyed ones, trying to find enough food and medical supplies. And endless, endless lists of casualties.

"How can I help?"

"Terri, you should rest."

"I will be fine. I want to walk. To be useful."

"You've done enough."

"Don't you you've-done-enough me! I _will_ be fine and I _will_ be walking. And I want something to right now. I've seen them die, so many of them... I need to keep my hands busy so I won't have to think of it. Don't you understand?"

Doc sighs. "How are your eyes?"

"I'm not the doctor here." She sighs. "Sorry, Doc. It's just..."

"Stress."

"That's a major understatement."

"Terri. Your eyes."

"I see in monochrome. Shapes, silhouettes, no details. I see where you stand, but I don't see your features. But I still can work on an omni-tool in audio mode. And I think I could also try it in a dark room, with contrast boosted up to maximum."

"Let's get you on your feet first."

"That can wait. Find me an omni-tool. And I'll think of something."

...

"We have retrieved your omni-tool, Commander." It is a male voice she does not know, and the silhouette on the cabin threshold is unfamiliar. "Working seamlessly."

"Do I know you?"

"Apologies, Commander. Captain Leon Kaminski, commanding officer of the SSV _Basel_."

"Alliance dreadnought? What are you doing here?" Technically, being a captain, he outranks her. Practically, she does not give a damn. She is considered a hero, a bloody symbol, and she is going to make use of it.

"We had to stay. Lost our engine. There are a few more ships, or what's left of them. A turian corvette, a quarian vessel. One of our Alliance frigates. Some escaped pods, with some survivors maybe. And loads of wreckage."

"But where are we? Earth? Space?"

"Space. Drifting. Ground teams and shuttles are looking for survivors and resources. Meanwhile, up here, we're trying to join the _Basel_ with the quarian unit, the _Rakis_. We have about half of a ship, they have another half and fortunately at least partly different than ours. With all the casualties we've sustained, we might as well make it one vessel. Well, one something, with an operational engine."

"Makeshift base? Sound sensible."

"There's barely anything left on Earth," the captain says, in a softer tone. "But if we look under every pile of debris, we may find enough supplies to make it."

Shepard nods. "How can I be of help?"

"How can you?" the captain answers with a question of his own. He omits her rank, just as she forgets about his. He seems a down-to-earth, effective officer, not caring for minor details, and Shepard likes it. This is exactly the type of people they need right now.

"There should be a full report on the state of the fleet." She ventures. "Each vessel, crew, cargo. We'll know where to start searching."

"A full report? If it's still there, it'll make everything a lot easier."

"About that ship-merging... Can I speak with your head engineer?"

"That'd be Wainwright. Fine, we can arrange that. An engineer yourself, Commander?"

"Let's say so. And the quarians?"

"You'd have to talk with their captain, Kash'Isaan. She was the second-in-command up until the battle and still is very cautious."

"I'll reason with her. How much supplies have we got?"

"Not much, but again, more than we hoped for, and we're still looking. The quarians are more fortunate in this respect, most life-support compounds of their ship are intact. Also, no one blasted their engine off."

"The why they didn't leave?"

"Hard to navigate with barely more than half a ship." The captain pauses. "But this should not be your concern right now, Commander."

"Just give me the wretched omni-tool."

"It's easier having your hands full of work," he remarks.

"Yes. Yes, it is." Shepard think it over for a while, then offers her hand. "Nice meeting you, Captain."

"Likewise, Commander." He shakes hands with her briefly. "Something else you need to know?"

"Everything." She manages a weak smile, but it fades quickly. "But one step at a time."

...

Some time will have to pass before she would be able to take that first literal step. The med-corset project is not complicated, but they lack resources, and even though Doc would be able to solve this using common orthopaedic microweave, now, between two crews he has under his wings, and the survivors still being found alive, he has no time.

Doc's assistant, nurse Katya Makarova, visits often to check on her or simply talk, but Shepard spends most of the time alone, down on the cot, searching through the data on her of omni-tool, preparing reports for Kaminski. Lists of crews of all the ships in the fleets, lists of those who had been on Earth, lists of possible supply sources in Sol, countless, countless lists. But she does not mind the work; on the contrary, she was glad to have something to do and keep her from thinking too much.

While Doc is a welcome accent to the otherwise unfamiliar crew, but she feels he is fretting over her too much. Kaminski, instead, just finds her something to do, which is exactly what she needs. They do not talk much, both preferring doing things with maximum efficiency and minimum words, and so abandoned addressing each other by the rank pretty quickly, switching to names.

They – Kaminski's crew – finished repairing another shuttle right this morning, and a quad is supposed to return from Earth any moment. Meanwhile, they are working on the turian corvette, focusing on getting at least one longer-range ship operational again. The _Basel_'s chief mechanic, Stanley Njima, is a miracle worker. With Philip Wainwright, who seems to be one of the most talented engineers Shepard has ever worked with, repairs are going pretty fast so far. Add all the quarians from the _Rakis_, minding that practically every quarian was either a mechanic or an engineer, some both, and they will soon be able to talk of getting a fully operational vessel with the FTL speed engine. Not enough to go that very far, enough to move around Sol system.

The real problem will be, probably soon enough, keeping people in high spirits, so they would not lose faith. As long as they hope there is a brighter future on horizon, things will work out, at they might get to that future all right. Once they would lose hope... Shepard does not want to think about that.

Sound of the door opening interrupts her train of thought.

"The scouts are back," says Kaminski, getting straight to the matter. "You'll have to update the list of casualties." He keeps his voice dry, but Shepard cannot help thinking it sounds empty. Each day adds new casualties to the list, and he is tired of it, as they all are. One day, it will finally be over, but for now this cannot be helped.

"I will. Found any survivors?"

"We've found Bradley. Doc is attending to him right now. I must find Katya."

"How is he?"

Kaminski sighs deeply. "He's in a coma."

A loud sob at the door informs them Katya has heard everything. Kaminski leaves, on the way whispering some words of comfort to the nurse and beckoning her to see her fiancé. But Katya has no strength for anything but sliding down to the floor and crying, sobs muffled into her hands.

A figure looms in the corridors, then kneels beside Katya. "Don't cry, girl." It is Astrid Shelhorn, the executive officer. Astrid has lost her son at Arcturus, right at the beginning of the war, but goes on, mothering all those who, like her, lost someone. "Hush, don't cry. He needs you to be strong."

Shepard grits her teeth, thinking of Lieutenant Ryan Bradley, unknown to her but by face and name, and wills him to live. To make it. _You're a soldier boy_, she thinks, as if mere thoughts could help somehow. _So fight, dammit, fight! Fight, because that's what soldiers do_.

...

Even though it has been over a week since the battle, they find another survivor down on Earth: a child, a boy of seven, alive and unharmed, except for some bruises and minor cuts. Another miracle. He is too traumatised and frightened even to speak, until Astrid approaches him in the med bay, where he is examined by Doc.

"My son was very much like you," she says quietly.

"Where is he now?" speaks the boy in a high, childish voice.

"Where your parents are. Waiting for us." That does it, and Shepard sees the smaller silhouette embrace the bigger as they boy cries against Astrid's shoulder. She hushes him gently. "What is your name?"

"I'm..." he sniffles. "Sam. Sam Morgan."

After the last part of checking crew lists she did, the name sounds familiar, so Shepard check it. She waits until the evening, when the boy is put to bed and only then she calls Astrid.

"There was a Staff Lieutenant Daniel Morgan on the SSV _Tanganika_. Is. Was. Dammit."

Sheldhorn sighs. "We still don't have quantum back, and FTL isn't working properly yet. But I'll remember to check on him once it's possible." She lets out a tired sighs. "Damn, we don't even know if there is still any fleet out there."

"There has to be. Dammit, there must be."

.

.

.

On Earth, she is detained. They give her back a set of casual Alliance clothes, but ground the _Normandy_. Shepard tells Chakwas to keep a low profile, and convinces her to leave for the Citadel. Joker, though, is another case altogether. He flied her to Aratoht and then picked her up from the project base; he will have to testify. Shepard is almost sorry for him: she was furious after Alchera, but forgave him when he had to witness the Collectors boarding the _Normandy _and abducting the entire crew but him: he got his atonement all right.

Days pass, and nothing happens. She is not allowed to leave the compound, and no one brings any news. After a week, she is tired of waiting. After another week, it becomes unbearable. Usually, she does not think of all the horrors she has seen simply by keeping herself busy, always. When she has nothing to do, nightmares come back, and after that fortnight there are shadows under her eyes for all the nights she wakes up sweating, hoping in vain the darkness would replace the pictures that still have the power to shake her enough to make her scream.

...

"You have a visitor, Commander," announces Lieutenant Vega, assigned to guarding her.

"I'm no commander any longer," she corrects without emotion, her tone empty like a drum. "What visitor?"

"Admiral Hackett is here for a few days on a routine defence check. He wants to ask you a few questions."

Shepard turns away from the lieutenant so that he would not notice the gleam in her eyes. Things will move now.

On the way to Earth, she has finally read that file from Liara. Someone from the Alliance sent a request to allow them take 'humanity's first Spectre' into custody and interrogate her. Hackett's reply consisted of two words only: '_Request denied_'. To Shepard, those two words are a treasured professing of trust.

...

Shepard has silently hoped for a quiet show, and hells, Hackett does not disappoint her in the least.

"Dismissed, Lieutenant." He says to Vega when the soldier brings her in.

"But, sir..."

"Lieutenant, I didn't become an admiral for looking pretty. I can handle my safety. Besides, she doesn't even have a gun. I do." He gestures to a holster dangling at his hip.

Reluctantly, Vega steps away, taking a post beside the door.

"Did you really bring a gun, sir?"

Hackett shrugs. "What for?" There is only one chair in the room, and, leaning against the table, he gestures for her to sit. "How are you doing?"

"Dying of boredom."

He scans her face, noticing the shadows under her eyes, but makes no comment on that. "I'm trying to get your report through. Maybe you'll be able to duck the process altogether."

"What will happen to Joker? Jeff Moreau?" she adds, realising there is no reason the admiral should know Joker by his alias.

"I wouldn't worry for Moreau; no one takes much notice of him. He wasn't the one who blew up an entire system."

The conversation stumbles, and second are slowly trickling by in silence.

"Can I ask you a question, sir?"

"Go on."

She keeps on contemplating the floor, alternatively glancing at her feet and his. There is a scratch along one of his otherwise perfectly groomed boots. "Alchera. Why?"

Hackett takes his time before he answers and when he does, it is with a question of his own. "Truth?"

"Yes. Because with all due respect, sir, your story did fall apart at the edges. I found it hard to believe there was need to confirm anyone's death at the time. And anyone could have chosen a place for the monument."

"You're right, Commander. That was just a cover story, and didn't have to be pretty convincing. You'd have gone regardless."

"Of course I'd have! It was my ship, it was my crew down there... Friends, brothers in arms. You could have written just 'Normandy' and it would have been enough."

"And still, you don't know? Really?"

She looks at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. He would not bother, would he? Come on, an admiral? No kidding...

"Cerberus put you back together, and the first thing you did when you acquired their data was send them to me. To the Alliance. You've earned your visit on Alchera, Commander."

Shepard blinks. Has she just heard...?

"It didn't really matter whose uniform you were wearing at the time. Did it?"

"I don't really know what to say. I thought that was a sort of test, or something. Not a gesture of kindness."

"Even if you had been with Cerberus, you deserved that. They were you crew, your brothers in arms. Your own words, not mine."

The conversation comes to another halt.

"Sir, about that batarian colony..."

"We've been through this already and I have no intention of talking it over again. You did what you had to do. You're just that kind of person."

"Are you making fun of me, sir?"

"Wouldn't dare. I've seen your records, Commander, I know how dangerous it is to cross you."

She lets out a short, quiet laugh. "You _are_ making fun of me."

"Just trying to lighten the mood. Seems I'm succeeding. Come on, Commander, you have to have something more pleasant to think about while there is nothing else to do. I can't do all the talking, it'll no longer be a conversation but a monologue."

"You're doing well so far, sir."

Hackett positively snorts. "Who's making fun of who, now, mhm?"

They fall silent for a while, but for the first time the silence between them in comfortable, not oppressive.

"Back on Earth..." Shepard begins, closing her eyes and trying not to think that it is the Fleet Admiral standing next to her. "Back on Earth," she repeats, 'back' referring to time, not place, "we used to tease each other almost all the time." She does not bother with clarification; Hackett has read her dossier. "It was just a way to survive, maybe not the only and maybe not the easiest, but hells, we tried to make the most of it. Pretended the whole business was fun. Sometimes we even believed ourselves. Other times, it was. Dyed my hair red when I was thirteen. Guys called me Red Terri after that, God, that was one horrible name... Never changed the shade ever since, though." She smiles to the memory. "I miss it all so much sometimes. The world seemed easier. You had a gun, you had a solution to everything. Then we grew up and realised it wasn't always a solution." Her eyes snap open. "Sorry for the ramblings, sir."

"You don't do this much, do you?"

"No. Try not to, anyway. I'm... I was a leader. A leader's not supposed to have problems, or suffer from low morals, or anything."

"No. Not really." Of course, he would know.

"How do you do it, sir?"

"Do what?"

"_It_. You're always so collected, calm. Damn, I'm trying, but I can't do that."

"Twenty years of practice more, Shepard. Just that."

"Twenty?" she blurts out almost instinctively, without thinking better of it.

"I've been told a few times I don't look my age." Hackett's face remains completely serious, but there is a barely visible twinkle to his eyes that tells Shepard he is joking. Maybe that is what has kept him going throughout the years: sense of humour.

"Seems life wasn't kind to you, sir."

"Not more so than to you, Commander. I bet there are a few strands of white under all the red."

"Probably." Most certainly, there are. Akuze. Virmire. Alchera...

They fall silent yet again. Looking into Hackett's icy-blue eyes, Shepard comprehends he must have walked miles in her shoes during his career. Well, he has never wiped out an entire system, obviously, but he had to make difficult decisions. The thought is oddly comforting. It is one thing to know she has the Fleet Admiral on her side, it is a completely different thing to know he will back her up because he understands.

Hackett notices the change in her expression. "Now, that's much better. Don't worry, Commander, we'll get you out of this yet."


	4. Reflection

**...**

**Reflection**

**...**

Shepard listens to days passing by like this: loss and grief mingling with miracles. Two weeks later, in the med bay cabin next to hers, Lieutenant Ryan Bradley wakes from the coma, and though he is not able to recall everything that happened down on Earth, he remembers most of the war, and he certainly remembers Katya.

The nurse visits Shepard the same day in the evening, eager to share her joy, which is practically radiating off her. Shepard cannot help but smile at this, all the while hoping she will be granted a similar miracle one day: reunion with her friends.

Katya reaches for her hand and puts a piece of cloth onto her open palm. "I tried to wash it, but the blood wouldn't wear off," she says, timidly. "Sorry for taking it away without asking, but we had to change your clothes when you arrived anyway, and I thought you'd want it back clean."

"Thanks." Shepard fingers the handkerchief, searching for letters. The stitching is still there, intact.

"Your boyfriend's?" asks Katya, with friendly curiosity.

Shepard laughs out. "Heaven forbid, no!"

"Someone important to you?"

Shepard mulls over this for a moment. Hackett is – was – is, dammit! – he is not her friend, not quite. But she remembers that thread of understanding being slowly weaved between them, reaching beyond an official acquaintance. "I guess."

...

That little talk with Katya leaves Shepard pondering, not about Hackett, but more generally about those important to her. About _what_ was important, and what is. She has been through this a few times already, but of them all, Horizon hurt the most.

Soon after the beginning of the war, she met with Kaidan again, and he joined her crew. For a time, she entertained the thought of rekindling their relationship, tired of being alone and craving for support, but after thinking it over, she decided against it. Kaidan did not quite insist after hearing her firm no, and did not ask for a reason either. Shepard had no heart to tell him, not then, not with all the battles they had to fight together. She still considered him a friend in the respect that they went out together, chatted, and fought side by side, but she did no longer share her thoughts with him. After Horizon... she could, and eventually did forgive him Horizon, but could not forget it. She could even understand him not giving her a chance to explain, caught up in a moment of bitter anger, but she could not forget he doubted her. Knowing all about her less than friendly past with Cerberus, knowing her dedication to the Alliance, he doubted her, and she could never again fully trust in someone who did not trust her. She did not need romanticism, nor puppy love; she wanted support and understanding, and it was neither Kaidan's nor her fault that she did no longer want what he could offer, and he could not give her what she longed for. Time and the course of events had changed them both, and those two years she was absent from the world dissolved whatever they once had. It hurt her for a while, and him probably too, but while it was sad, it was not tragic. Life went on. They had to do the same.

And now, that was what she needed to do: move on. Try to carve herself a life where she was. She did not let go of her friends, fervently clinging to the hope of seeing them again, but to ever meet them, she had to try and make things work right here and now.

...

The search for survivors continues, but in another month the _Basel_ should be operational again, and they have to move on with planning. Kaminski decided to include her in planning, but as she is still confined to bed, the engineering party gathers in the med bay. The lights are out, and Wainwright is projecting the first draft of the plans from his omni-tool.

"Why not a sphere, like in our ships?" asks Ivat'Kaal, one of the quarian engineers.

"We lack resources," Kaminski keeps repeating the same phrase over again the whole evening. They have recovered much from Earth, and a bit from Mars, and while it would be more than enough for a planetary ground base, rebuilding a space station requires more.

"And that old mining facility over Jupiter?" reminds doctor Vaeto, one of the few salarians who survived the crash of their ship and ended up on Earth, found barely two days ago, after they set up a light-signal beacon.

"And how exactly would you turn that into a sphere?" Kash'Isaan retorts.

"And what about... how do you humans call it, a Bernal sphere?" suggest Vaeto.

Wainwright stays silent, apparently thinking something over. "Maybe, if we used the modified project..."

"Give names, Wainwright," snaps Vaeto. This is going too slow for him.

"An O'Neill cylinder."

"Mph. Might work, if consider the Point Zero revised option. Believe the human term is Newman-Ivanov ark."

"Yes... Would make sense."

"Fine." Kash'Ishaan agrees. "Captain Kaminski?"

"I'm not the engineer around here. Draw the plans, explain them to me, then we can talk. Well, Shepard?"

"I'm more into battle engineering than construction. So I'm not sure if I should have a vote on this."

"Aren't we still lacking resources?" questions the turian commander, Atlil, currently in charge of a supplies-scouting team.

Vaeto snorts, frustrated. "Foolish. Didn't see... Solution so simple! Resources floating out there."

"You mean-..." Shepard begins, but the salarian interrupts her.

"Obvious. The Citadel. Many minor parts barely holding together. Could try."

"There's still the problem of getting it to Jump Zero," says Kaminski, the steady voice of reason.

Kash'Isaan's silhouette moves as she steps forward, obscuring part of the plans from Shepard's view. "Leave that to us."

"That still leaves us with one problem. Restoring the relay." Wainwright sighs. "Unless there's anything left among the remains of Gagarin, we have no sufficient tech."

"Might be a difficulty," says Vaeto dryly. A curse in salarian follows.

Shepard remembers something they could not come up with simply because it is no common knowledge. "There was a relay on the Citadel."

"The relays are destroyed, Commander." Atlil reminds.

"This one wasn't connected to the network. Prothean, not Reaper tech."

Vaeto clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Worth a try. Ready for a challenge, engineer Wainwright?"

"Ready when you are, doctor."

...

They set to work. Shepard cannot help with drawing the plans, as this requires utmost precision, but she is included in calculations and discussing theoretical matters. These first stages are absolute chaos, and she wonders briefly what will happen later on.

She also learns some facts which can prove very useful in survival once she will be on her feet again. No one bickers like a quarian engineer when you are trying to correct his engine plans, and it is damn frustrating when it turns out the quarian engines specialist, Suee'Vreen, is right again. The salarians do not think they are genius compared to other species, just know their advantage of faster metabolism and adequately faster thought processing, though doctor Vaeto's way of expressing it leaves much to be desired. Asari, aside from being commandos and dancers, can be dedicated nurses, as Ilsha – a biotic rescued from a floating life-pod where she spend almost a week in statis – proves from the first day Doc assigned her to help. The turians, along with Kaminski's crew, scout for resources, and if there is any positive outcome of the war, it is teaching different species to work together, even humans and turians. To succeed, they all have to become one crew, and even though it will not be easy, they are willing to undertake the effort. Which is not a bad start.

...

Doc is keeping her busy with another set of examinations, then gets down to preparing the orthopaedic microweave into something more suitable for the task.

"How long will it take me to walk?" Shepard asks, then grits her teeth as Katya distributes another intramuscular injection somewhere near her shoulder blades. Mild muscle-strengtheners, she explained earlier, supposed to help her keep straight.

"I'm nearly finished." Doc is at the little work station, patiently forming the weave. "Just have to add one more layer."

"Good."

"You still have to get the second intra-osseous set."

Shepard puffs in resignation. Yes, she has to get another set of nano-injections that are supposed to temporarily fill in the holes in the bone. The procedure is definitely far from pleasant, as she remembers from the previous set much too vividly. But at least it is pain that keeps her awake during the nights, and not nightmares.

...

The pain in cleansing. She lies awake, remembering Anderson, who always backed her up no matter what, and mourning him with silent tears, wishing she knew an appropriate prayer. But not even the pain can wash off the guilt of being the one who survived. She remembers Ashley Williams, Ash, loyal until the end, lost years ago on Virmire. She looks up with her barely seeing eyes.

"Drink my health up there," she mutters into the night. _Wait for me, dear friends, wait for me. We'll meet again. _"We will..." she repeats, aloud. "But not yet." She reaches under her pillow and takes out the handkerchief. She is not a romantic type, but this is not a mere piece of cloth any longer. Aside from her omni-tool, it is currently her only personal possession, a link to the past. It has became a symbol, a promise she intends to keep: not to yield, until the end and beyond. "Not yet."

...

"So, would you tell me?" Katya asks, adjusting the almost-finished med-corset over Shepard's ribs.

"Tell you what?"

"About that handkerchief."

"That's... a long story."

"I have time. No, no, hands up. Like this, fine. Hold still."

"Will it take that long every time?"

"Of course not. I have to make adjustments, then it'll work on simple clasps. So?" Katya, busy with adjusting the weave, does not give up on her question.

Shepard reconsiders. What could it hurt, anyway? "Since it's not like I'm not going anywhere... Just don't laugh. Got it from my commanding officer. Well, more like accidentally stole it from him. I was so miserable that day that I forgot to gave it back. Took the blasted thing everywhere with me afterwards, always forgot to give it back."

.

.

.

Even though they talked via the quantum, Admiral Hackett requested her to meet him in person. As EDI and Traynor managed to meanwhile trace down Kai Leng, she will have an opportunity to mention it to Hackett over a most secure channel existing: eye to eye conversation. So now she is walking along the main deck of SSV _Terra_, the Alliance Fleet flagship.

She is reluctant to meet him. Via the quantum, it was enough to put her hands behind her back, and it was no longer possible to notice her palms balled up into fists. Besides, it was just right after the fighting, and she could draw strength from anger. By now, most of the anger has worn off, leaving only the image of Thessia's destruction burned under her eyelids.

Hackett receives her in his official meeting room. It is simple, ascetic even as far as higher-class-ships standards go, the only 'decoration' being a glass pane. Dreadnoughts are drifting by, countless shuttles coursing from one to another, and beyond that all, the Crucible is looming against the sea of distant stars. Damn, it is impressive.

"Commander." Hackett is at his desk, a datapad in his hand, but as she enters he puts it away and gets up.

"You wanted to see me, sir."

"I thought it would be easier to debrief you in person. And certainly more civilised."

This is war, and there is no time for courtesies. But again, maybe it is equally important not only if they win this war, but _how_ do they fight? Maybe it is more important than winning?

Hackett gestures towards two chairs, and they both sit down. Shepard hands him the report, not meeting his eyes. The admiral does not speak, neither reads the report. Just watches her silently, waiting.

"Everything is in the report, sir," Shepard says finally.

She gets up and walks over the window pane, looking at lights of the fleet. So different from the fires on Thessia. So alike. Hackett still does not answer, which forces her to speak. "I don't want to... I can't talk about it. I won't."

"That's why you're here."

Shepard turns her head abruptly to look at him, but does not ask. For her, this conversation is over.

"You can't give up, not now. I thought I explained your role to you clearly enough, Commander."

"I know," she agrees, without conviction.

Shepard turns towards the window, only to meet the eyes of Hackett's reflection, watching her from the glass.

"What happened?" He queries. It is not a demand for a report, just a simple question.

"We lost," she says, and after she begins she cannot stop talking, words spilling from her mouth on their own accord, and each of them bitter. "We lost Thessia. Palaven. Arcturus. Earth..." Inside, she is shaking with anger. They are all doing their best, and dammit, it is not enough.

"It's a war," Hackett says, his tone softer than usual. "It's impossible to avoid loses."

"How much more do we have to lose?" Shepard demands, no one in particular. The helpless rage in her boils over the edges of her endurance and silent tears of anger flow down her cheeks.

She hears Hackett's quiet steps as he walks towards her. He reaches inside a pocket and offers her a handkerchief. Shepard dries her cheeks, but new tears keep flowing. The admiral stands silently an arm's length from her, offering no more gestures or words of comfort, and for that, she is grateful. Too much kindness would make her fall into pieces.

"How do you do it?" she asks, subsiding tears and anger at her own powerlessness still choking her. "Keep going?"

"Because I have to," he answers, his words making Shepard's head turn sharply to look at him. For the first time, she notices quiet echoes of exhaustion in his voice, and the tiredness momentarily written on his face. Hackett nods at her once. "Got used to it," he adds, casually, and she feels for him.

Shepard glances down at the material she is holding, noticing a hand-stitched monogram. 'S.H.'. She wonders briefly whether that was a gift from a friend or a family member: looks like a sister's or mother's work.

"S?" she asks quietly, fingering the letters.

"Steven," he says simply.

It takes her a moment to move on to normal conversation.

"Why did you ask?" She forgets about the customary 'sir'.

"Someone has to take care of my soldiers' morale."

She holds his gaze for a long while, and he meets her eyes calmly.

"And who takes care of you morale, sir?"

"Soldiers who get their job done. Like you."

...

That evening, back on the _Normandy_, wanting to keep the sleep away for just another while longer, Shepard gets down to the comm room. She says there is one or two details on the Crucible progress she needs to check and waves Traynor away, wishing to be left alone.

She activates the console, opens the search window and quickly types the key words in, not really looking at the digital buttons as she knows the layout by heart already. The computer sifts through the archives and in a second she has the list of videos ready. Arranging them into a playlist, she steps away from the console to lean against the wall.

The recordings go by, and then there is this one mentioning the defeat at Arcturus. Shepard focuses on Hackett's voice, as for a moment barely contained emotions sound through. Damn, she knows how it feels so well it almost hurts to watch. Helpless anger, that feeling of defeat, and then in a blink of an eye you have to be the inspiring leader once more, pushing the doubt away for later, when it keeps you from sleeping in the long hours of the night. She watches as Hackett's hands curl into fists, then looks down in surprise and discovers her hands have done the same.

Arcturus. What is with those blasted "A" beginning names, she wonders briefly, frustrated. Arcturus, Hackett's very own Alchera, she thinks. Or Akuze. Bloody hell, just how many _thousands_ they have lost there at Arcturus?

It feels like looking into a mirror, and though it is just a recording as so, damn, it is not possible, it feels like the mirror is _looking back_. Back then, she was so very lost in her own emotions she has forgotten there were others, like _Hackett_, feeling exactly what she was feeling.

She activates the comm. Hackett is offline, but he will get the message.

"Just wanted to say you're doing a hell of a job out there, sir." This single sentence lifts her spirits a bit. Maybe it would also lift his.

The comm flickers to life: Hackett is without his cap, two top buttons of his uniform undone; he was probably going to snatch a few hours of sleep, and, judging by the state of his clothing, he probably has a comm installed even in his cabin. Impossibility to sleep undisturbed is probably one of the profits of being the Fleet Admiral. Hackett raises his eyebrows at her slightly, but in the end leaves the question unasked.

"No need to flatter me, Commander."

"No flattering," she assures. "Just taking care of your morale."

One corner of Hackett's lips curls up briefly. "Appreciated."

Shepard smiles a little. "I'm hoping for that medal you promised me once, sir."

He shakes his head at her. Then, for a moment, she is rewarded with a full smile. "Commander, look at the clock, realise how late it is and get some rest."

"Aye aye. Get some rest yourself, sir."

"Was going to."

"Sorry about distracting you, sir."

"I don't mind." The smile is long gone, but the ghost of it is still hovering over his lips. "And you don't seem to be sorry, Commander." It clearly amuses him to watch her pulling the regs a little, but never truly breaching the protocol, testing how far she can go when talking with him.

"Not truly, no." It amuses her, too. She knows he does not really care how does she address him as long as the chain of command is still intact in the long run. This – allowing her to stand right on the verge of crossing some lines – is his way of indicating he is her friend. Not in the 'let's go for a drink and have a chat about nothing' kind of way, neither the kind of friend to pour her heart out before. But so far, he has always backed her up, and will continue to do so. With him, she does not have to be the inspiring leader, she can slow down, stop for a moment and catch a deeper breath, and be the tired soldier she _is_. With him, she does not have to keep the hero image up. She wonders whether that is why he occasionally lets her peek behind his façade.

"Commander?"

"Oh. Sorry. Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight. And, Commander? Peaceful dreams. Hackett, out."


	5. Light years

**...**

**Light years**

**...**

A month after the battle, faster than they thought it would happen, they reach Jump Zero. Most of the turians have been left on Earth, looking for more supplies and any stuff that could come in handy. They are accompanied by a small human squad, some of the salarians and the asari biotic, Ilsha. The rest is at Gagarin, busy with the rebuilding, working their fingers to the bone to restore the station.

Things are not perfect. There are tensions, arguments, and she has heard of at least one fight between a turian scout and the _Basel_'s gunnery chief, Maurice Fabre. She is certain more will come. But they remember Commander Shepard is among them, so they grit their teeth, holding arguments back, making the efforts to hide their disagreements because of _her_. It is infuriating, being a blasted symbol, a damn hero. It is a blessing she can use this to hold them together. It is... humbling, to know she can help holding them in line to build a future. Not a better future, just _any_ future. They do quarrel, they do bicker, they _do_ work _together_ in spite of this.

Since the arrival at Gagarin, she is glad she has to stay on the ship and, frankly speaking, cannot help with rebuilding much otherwise than check the calculations. Aboard the _Basel_, it is warm. Outside, in space, it is cold, debris everywhere, and _bodies_: out in space, in scarce, not completely destroyed compartments of the station, everywhere. Shepard knows it by the way everyone comes back from working in space so quiet, and the quarrels pause for a while.

Then, one evening – evening purely by standard time, because practically there is not night or day on the ship – Kaminski gathers all the temporary leaders, invites Shepard too out of courtesy, and they talk. The talk is very short, and then Kaminski announces their decision through the radio. No one protests.

Next day, they gather the bodies and unnecessary debris and then set a timer of the fusion bomb. When the bomb explodes into a flash of light, they all say their prayers as they see fit, whether it is a conventional prayer, some broken words, or a moment of silence. Bodies of those who died there, those trying to protect Earth and those who had no time escape and no place to run to, are no longer shards of ice frozen in space, but neither do they turn to ashes. They become stardust.

The blast of light is still flashing when she closes her eyes, almost painful. They had to pay a terrible price, and it will take some time to shake the memories off. But what is even more dreadful is the awareness it was still worth it, because the alternate was much worse and much more terrifying.

...

A while ago, they have fixed the FTL comm, or at least so they hope. The comm specialist, Rita Barzetti, has established a stable communication channel with the Earth team right away. So now, when they are more or less back on firm ground, they can move onwards.

As Shepard cannot help with the more physical work, even though she is walking again, albeit still with difficulty, she is tasked with sitting at the comm, searching for contact. She is sharing the responsibility with Rita, or rather the other way round, because Rita is the comm specialist here. Shepard takes nightshifts when she only can – that is, when most of the crew is asleep. She is craving for solitude and silence. Kaminski inquires about this once, but does not press the matter, leaving her the figurative space to breathe freely. They are more on effective-official than friendly terms, but he has seen enough to understand her, like now, when he just passes by to remind her to notify him immediately if any contact was made, then wishes her a good evening and leaves.

Shepard voice-activates the comm, then leans back into the chair as far as the med-corset allows. It has been almost a whole week since they began broadcasting the signal, trying to establish contact with the Fleet – or, frankly, _anyone_. She keeps repeating the transmission, all the while listening for any anomaly that could indicate someone else was alive, her fingers skimming over the buttons.

Another change of frequency, another time she repeats the same words, wondering for a hundredth time if it would not be easier just to record the damn phrase.

"This is Earth. Repeat, this is Earth. Anyone out there? Please, respond. Somebody answer this, dammit... This is Shepard. This is..."

The comm creaks, and a distorted voice comes through, muffled by noise. Shepard frantically tries to adjust the filter, quick, she has to hurry, before she loses the connection...

"_Anyone out there? Please respond._" There is still minor interference, but the voice comes through clearly enough. It is Traynor.

"This is Shepard. Repeat, this is Shepard."

"_Shepard?! Commander Shepard, is that really you?_" Traynor sounds like she cannot quite believe it.

"_Shepard?... Commander Shepard?_" speaks a male voice, and dammit, Shepard could swear the little cogwheels of the universe click back into place.

"Admiral Hackett?"

"_How are you? Where are you?_" This is the first time ever she hears Hackett moved enough to lose a bit of his composure.

"SSV _Basel_. How and where are you, sir?"

"_Arcturus. We sustained heavy losses, but the situation is still better than we expected. You?_"

"We've got two Alliance ship, a quarian vessel, some turians, a salarian tech team and an asari biotic. I'll get the list."

"_We'll need the list of survivors and intel on resources, situation on Earth, and in the Sol system if you can move around_." Hackett is back into his commanding officer mode, calm and organised. "_Meanwhile, I'll get a report prepared on our side._"

"I'll see about the report. And the communications, sir?"

"_Working on it. Quantum is not operational yet, we only have audio FTL. This channel is the most stable we have so far._" There is a momentary pause and a muffled sound of someone else speaking. "_Duty calls. Contact in two standard hours. Get me the officer in charge of the _Basel. _And Commander: good to have you back. Hackett, out._"

Shepard almost grins. "Likewise, sir." She secures the frequency, ordering the computer to memorize it, and, just in case, saving the coordinates on her omni-tool. Then she turn the radio on. "We've got them!" is all she is able to say, a wave of tremendous relief flooding her as the full impact of what has just happened sinks in. They made it, they made it, they _made it_!

...

In two standard hours Rita is back on her place of duty, with Shepard sitting at the other comm post. Kaminski is behind Rita's chair, waiting. The fixed hour comes and goes, but there is no transmission incoming.

Rita takes over. "SSV _Basel_ to the Alliance Fleet. Repeat, SSV _Basel_ to the Alliance Fleet. Admiral Hackett, sir, are you there?"

No reply comes.

Kaminski rests a hand on the back of the chair, leaning towards the comm slightly. "Keep broadcasting," he commands calmly.

"Aye aye." Rita repeats the message, recording it, then sets to audio repeat every two minutes.

Half an hour after the appointed time, the comm cracks with the incoming signal, and they can breathe normally again.

"_SSV Basel, this is the Alliance Fleet_." It is Hackett.

Kaminski straightens. "Captain Leon Kaminski reporting for duty, sir."

"_Status report._"

"Location: Gagarin. Operational ships: SSV _Basel_, SSV _Herbert_, turian corvette _Varian_, half a dozen shuttles. Quarian vessel _Rakis_ mostly dissembled for parts. A scouting team left on Earth. Priority: rebuilding Gagarin and restoring the Charon relay."

"_Good work. Our location: Arcturus. All remaining _Sword_ and _Shield _forces are with us. FTL communication re-established in most of the Council Space. Priority: re-establishing the relay network. Preparing casualties lists. Send me a full list of your crew, Captain. All crews of your ships._"

"Aye aye, sir."

"_Contact tomorrow at 1100 standard, I want a full progress report. Hackett out."_ The comm cracks again.

Captain Kaminski chuckles. "That quote is bound to be on his epitaph one day."

Shepard laughs out loud. She imagines how Anderson would have laughed at that along with them. It still hurts a little when she remembers the day of the battle, but this is the pain which means life. Hackett is alive and safe, and all those alive are safe now, and this is the moment they can conquer death and best honour those lost: by living, by laughing.

"_Next time I'd advise turning the comm off first, Kaminski_, " remarks Hackett, before cutting the comm off, and Shepard is almost certain she hears a note of amusement in his voice.

They laugh at that for a good while, over a midnight cup of coffee. Wainwright is with them, and his shoulders are shaking with laughter as Rita repeats him Kaminski's comment. Shepard is certain that by morning it will be a running joke all across the ship.

Listening to Kaminski, Rita and Wainwright joking together, she thinks of them all: a group of people and aliens thrown together by fate, forced to work together so they could have a future. Soon, they will be laughing together. They will not always get on greatly, and they will continue to quarrel and differ, but maybe one day they will become a community. Maybe even, some day far from now, they could become friends.

Shepard is happy for it, she truly is. But she cannot forget her friends, those left behind and those she is now parted with, nor the crew of the _Normandy_. She walks out of the mess and stops in the corridor, putting a hand to the wall, behind which, out there, are stars she cannot see.

...

Shepard cannot sleep, for there is no alcohol on the blasted ship and they are running out of sleeping pills, plus, Doc expressly forbade her to take them. And knowing Doc, she would long remember the lesson after taking whatever stuff he would give her instead.

So she goes down to the comm room, shooing Rita away. She collapses onto the chair, orders the computer to tone the volume down and listens to the white noise. It reminds her of childhood, when she used to sit like that with her grandfather, sometimes catching the frequency of a passing shuttle for a minute of talk. Strange how now, when the Earth is a pile of ashes and debris, so many things remind her of home.

Sighing, she decides to make herself useful. There is no point in brooding; what she needs is action.

"Computer, prepare data transit to the Alliance Fleet. Data copying from omni-tool, type: Savant XIV, serial number: ATI395. Commence," she orders, taking the headphones off. Any incoming call will be light-signalled anyway, and listening to the names of the living – the list is long, but so, so short compared to the litany of names that will not be there – it is too much.

After half an hour, she falls into a kind of daze, something alike sleep, just that she is not sleeping and her eyes are open. Then, the light blinks, and she brushes the sleep away from her eyes with the back of her hand, and puts the headphones back on.

"SSV _Basel_."

"_Commander Shepard?_"

"Admiral Hackett." It is comforting to hear his voice, enough to make her smile for a second. "Good to hear you, sir."

"_Thank you for the incoming report, Commander._"

Shepard thinks, hard. But if this is not an emergency call, and judging the tone of Hackett's voice, it is not, then things do not add up.

"Sir? Has something happened?"

"_No. Just figured out you'd like to know how your friends are faring._"

"Err... Technically speaking, isn't this abusing the comm, sir?"

"_A little._" He does not seem to be perturbed in the least. "_But I doubt anyone will lecture the Fleet Admiral about it._"

She does not really have an answer to this.

"_Admiral Tali'Zorah is with the Flotilla, Garrus Vakarian is with the turian fleet. Doctor T_'_Soni has retaken the Broker's ship and resides there, searching for resources. Mordin Solus is working on re-establishing the Arcturus relay. Miranda Lawson is helping him. She was asking about you._"

"And the _Normandy_?" her question is anxious.

"_The_ _crew is safe and sound. Don't worry, Commander, I'm keeping an eye on them._"

"You have taken the _Normandy_ over, sir?" Her ship... On the other hand, if anyone but her or Anderson has to command the _Normandy_, Hackett would be her own choice anyway.

"_It's easier to move around the Fleet in a smaller ship._"

"If anyone, I'd rather it was you, sir," she tells him frankly.

"_I'd rather you were with the Fleet, Commander_."

Shepard smiles. For a wonderful, blessed second it feels as if the war never happened, and they were talking over some everyday Alliance business.

"Thank you, sir."

"_Don't thank me_." His voice sounds a shade more gravely when he answers. "_I thought we've lost you, Shepard. And we've lost too many good soldiers already._" He does not say he had to command them through it all, and many of those deaths were because someone followed his orders. "_I had to order too many people into death._" Oh. He does say it.

"There was no choice..." she begins, but he cuts her off.

"_I'm a grown man, Commander. I can cope._" He pauses, then his voice softens a little. "_Appreciate the concern, though._"

There was no choice, no other way, and they both know it. There are no words Shepard can offer him except for what she has already said, and there are no other words Hackett can offer her but those he has already given.

"Get some rest, sir," she says instead.

"_Shepard, I don't need mothering. But you're right, it's getting late. Contact tomorrow at 1100 as agreed, another at 1700, I should be able to skim through your report by then. Goodnight, Commander. Hackett out._" He hangs up before she has time to respond.

Shepard remains in the cabin, watching the now silent comm. She reaches into the inner pocket of her jacket to finger the material of the handkerchief hidden there – still smelling faintly of smoke, and slightly worse for wear with a hole burnt in it, and blood stains that did not wash off. A badge of honour, eh? _One day, I'm gonna give you this blasted handkerchief back, Hackett. A year from now, two years, two dozen, doesn't matter. But you have my word on it._

The recent comm talk with Hackett echoes in her mind, and she realises she misses not only her friends, but him too, the longing sudden and utterly surprising, and all the stronger for it. She would like to talk with him, one of those weird talks that always seemed to go into random directions only to always turn out just right.

He is not her friend, not considering the conventional use of the word; acquaintance is more like it, though they share a deeper understanding she would rather ascribe to friendship. She does not want to dwell on this too much, for Hackett is her commanding officer still, but, somewhere along all the fighting, he has become an indispensable part of her life. A constant.

.

.

.

"Good luck. To us all."

"We'll need it. Anderson out."

"Ready, Commander?"

Shepard meets Hackett eyes and reads the reflection of her own answer there: they are not ready. They will never be ready, and if the Crucible will not work this is the last day of life for most of the galaxy.

"As ready as can be. Let's kick their synthetic asses out of here. Ahem. Sorry, sir."

"Now, that's the spirit we need, even though I'd have put it a bit differently. As long as we have only one system left, one planet, hell, one ship, we'll keep on fighting, something along these lines. But you pretty much conveyed the same meaning."

"In much less elegant words. Too much time on the frontline." Shepard sighs. "Why are we always like that? Fighting against all odds?"

"That's what we humans do. Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."

"Tennyson? I didn't expect you to be a poetry enthusiast, sir."

"I didn't expect you to be versed in poetry either, Commander."

"I'm not. Just remember that quote back from the Academy. Astrophysics lectures with Major Sinclair." The battle is about to being, and she is talking with the Fleet Admiral of poetry and lectures. This is so out of place it feels completely right. This is the human instinct of survival: small-talk, concentrating on details, pushing the thoughts of the danger away for that last critical moment of waiting, and then letting the adrenaline take over.

"Sinclair? Heavens, does he still teach?"

"He did, ten years ago."

"Amusing, how after all the years a quote from Tennyson is what you remember best about the lecture on astrophysics."

"So, that quote was just cheating, sir?"

"Poetry's not really my thing. But you have to admire the man for putting the essence of humanity into two lines."

Time is running short: they cannot hold the attack back for much longer. Shepard knows this is not the best of occasions, but it may be the last she has.

"Sir? I know it's not the best time for such irrelevant details, but... I still have your handkerchief."

"I think I've said once I'd give you a medal." Momentarily, there is that twinkle to his eyes. "So consider this a badge of honour."

Shepard snorts with laughter.

For a brief moment, Hackett smiles back. "Godspeed to you, Commander." He salutes to her first, and that speaks volumes: all she has done, all she had to go through, it did not go unnoticed.

Shepard salutes back. She swallows, but manages to reign her voice in. "Godspeed to you, Admiral."

"To us all."

"To us all..." she echoes, watching as he turns away and walks out of the room.

_Don't you dare die today, Hackett. Because one day I'm gonna give this blasted handkerchief back to you, you have my word on it._

* * *

Author's note:

First and foremost, thank you for all the follows and favs :)

Slightest AU in this chapter, as you've no doubt noticed; Mordin is alive. His in-game death was epic and all, but the whole genophage plot, while great earlier, seems a little forced in ME3. Genophage, with Reapers destryoing the galaxy, when soon there might be no krogans left to reproduce? Really? It seemed to me Wrex would've had more common sense than that._  
_

[And for those of you who got the Babylon 5 and Dune references, 1000 XP for each ;) ]


	6. Celestial Mechanics

**...**

**Celestial Mechanics**

**...**

Time, Shepard thinks, is a curious things. Weeks stretch into months, but they do not pass like they should, a measured, even period of time each. During the day, when they are calculating, making drafts and plans, and endless, endless revisions and corrections, they are constantly running out of hours. During the nights, when she cannot sleep and sits at the FTL comm waiting for a signal from the Fleet, as she is doing now, minutes stretch long into the dark.

She activates the omni-tool, setting it for searching the data-base. At the dawn of war, when they had to collect assets and carefully count loses, Hackett gave her access to most of the vast Alliance archives, and she is now skimming through another status report from the last peaceful days of Sol system. They have made some interesting findings already, and she was hoping for more.

A touch to her shoulders almost makes her jump, or rather would have if not for the med-corset.

"Sorry," says the intruder as soon as Shepard takes off the headphones.

"It's okay, Doc." She smiles briefly. "Now you can boast you scared the hell out of Commander Shepard."

"Ha-ha. Forgive me if I won't burst into laughter." There is a movement as Doc sits down on the remaining chair. "Still here? The Captain has the comm installed in his cabin, so has Astrid. You don't have to sit here all night."

"No, I don't."

"Ah."

Shepard's fingers fiddle with the volume regulator of the headphones as she waits for Doc to speak again. She was not the one to start this conversation and was not going to continue. Guessing where it would go, she would rather not be having it at all.

"We'll see them, Theresa. Most of us have someone out there."

_I have almost _everyone_ out there_, she wants to say, but bites back the reply. Doc wants her to get a hold of herself, for her to be once more either the Terri he remembers from the past or the Shepard he has heard so much of during his medical career with the military. But... both that girl and that woman are gone now. Parts of them are still there, of course, and always will be, but she is someone else now. She has been strong for years; now she does not have to be strong anymore and it is a relief, a blessing, for she has no energy for that anymore.

It is also a curse. It was easy to define herself before, now she is... stuck, somewhere in the middle... of _what_ exactly? She cannot tell. The crew is friendly to her, and yet something is amiss. She shares no past with them, and the future is yet in building. She is tired, and needs someone who would just be there, and would ask no questions not out of kindness but out of knowledge.

"Theresa?"

Shepard sighs. "Still here, Doc."

"We're all tired."

"I know. I know..." She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "By the morning I'll be inspiring again, promise." This is her major role: being an inspiration. And there she hoped it would end once the war was over.

Doc puts his hand on her shoulder. "Want to talk?"

"Not sure I can."

"We've grown apart." This is no accusation or regret, merely a statement of fact. "Guess it had to happen, after all these years..."

"And how are _you_ doing, Patrick?" She digs his name out of depths of her memory. It is fitting, even if she still thinks of him as 'Doc'.

"Fine. Trying to hit on Rita, but don't tell her that." Doc sighs theatrically. "But damn, she's been immune to my charms so far."

This is a vivid déjà vu of similar talks they used to have long ago on Earth, even the words are almost exactly the same.

"Doc, brother, but you have no charm," she reprises her old answer.

"Ah, I knew there has to be more to the problem." He gets up. "If you'd want to talk..."

"I know where to find you. And Doc: thanks."

...

Kaminski is on the comm, talking with Admiral Hackett. Shepard does not want to disturb them, so she stops at the door, quiet.

"_You've found _what_?_" there is a clear note of disbelief in Hackett's voice.

"The old Pluto-based observatory, sir, Galileo. Shut down, a bit outdated, but most of the stuff is still operational."

"_The end of the twenty-first century, and you call it outdated?_"

"Considering space tech, it is more like ancient, but well preserved. Quarians are working on it, and that will save us tremendous amounts of work. It's easier to update and repurpose than to build from scratch when we're short of scratch."

"_How long before you restore Gagarin?_"

"Hard to say, sir. I'll send my chief engineer's report as soon as I get it. I think we're talking about six to ten months to get the station back to a decent level. But with Galileo and the debris from the Citadel, I think we'll be opening in a month."

"_Very well. Good job, all of you. In a month, then,_" Hackett says, but it sounds like he does not quite mean re-establishing the station.

"In a month?" Shepard asks. She should not interrupt the talk, but frankly speaking, she does not give a damn.

"_Is that Commander Shepard?_"

The question is directed to Kaminski, but she answers before he does. "Yes, sir."

"_Two minutes, Captain?_"

"Of course, sir." Kaminski moves away from the comm, lightly touching Shepard's arm to indicate she should come closer. "I'll see about the tech status reports. Kaminski out." With that, he leaves.

Shepard walks over to the comm. "What is it that will happen in a month, sir?"

"_Good evening to you too, Commander._" His tone suggests he is chiding her, albeit gently, as this is more of a friendly banter than reproof. "_In a month, we're planning to arrive at Sol._"

"What?!"

"_No need for that much excitement. I meant just the _Normandy... _Although I suppose it will be much more than 'just' to you._"

"But... the _Normandy_ does not have an appropriate mass effect core."

"_No, it doesn't,_" speaks a female voice suddenly, the tone amused. "_But my ship has._" It is Liara. "_Excuse me, Admiral, but you are needed at the engineers meeting_ _for this very reason._"

"_In a moment, doctor T'Soni._"

"_I'll tell them you'll be there momentarily. Shepard, take care._"

Shepard leans against the console, her head reeling. Can this be done? Can it be so easy? Can it be she will see her friends again in a matter of _a month_?

"Sir, is that possible?"

"_The salarian engineering team certainly thinks so._" He pauses. "_I thought you'd like to know. Most of your crew will be coming._"

"Thank you, sir, " she mutters. "But..."

"_Don't thank me, Shepard. And if you wanted to elaborate, don't try it either. Besides, if we were to sum up who owes whom, and how much, I'm afraid it would leave me in your debt._"

"Don't, sir," she says softly. "Don't think that. All this went far beyond any measure long ago."

"_That's what I'm trying to tell you, Commander. So, in a month. Hackett out._"

Why does he do it, Shepard wonders. It would have hurt no one if she learnt of that from Kaminski, and yet Hackett bothered to tell her personally. Maybe because she was in the room right then, and because of this debt to her he mentioned only half-seriously, and yet she knows he did mean that. Or maybe it is something else entirely.

This connection they used to have is weaving between them again, and Shepard cannot help but wonder what was it exactly. The word 'friend' stubbornly does not want to fit enough to describe it, and neither does the phrase 'two sides of a coin'. They both used to serve the same cause and share the same goal, they do so still, in fact, and maybe that is why she thinks of planets. Yes, this analogy seems fitting: two planets of the same system, orbiting the same sun.

...

Doc touches her elbow lightly, but she does not need his signal to notice the coming ship, as the space traffic control centre is broadcasting over the whole station today, and she can clearly hear Joker's well known voice as he formally asks the permission to dock. And there is the shape she either makes out among lights and shadows on the screen, or it is just her mind playing trick. It does not matter much. The _Normandy_ is back, and to Shepard it feels as if she recovered a piece of home. A piece of herself.

The ship docks gracefully – she does not quite see it, but how else can any ship land with Joker at the helm – and she hears the hiss of the hatch being opened. Footsteps echo against the metal floor as the crew of the _Normandy_ comes aboard the station at the other side of the small docking bay. Muffled voices fill the bay, not very distant, but not close enough for her to recognize. Suddenly there is silence, troubled, cutting through the air. Shepard feels an empty space forming around her, and she knows all heads are turning in her direction, though she does not see it and for the first time is thankful for the damage to her eyes. Then, again, if everything was all right she would not feel so lost, and everyone would know how to behave... And now? How do you approach someone considered a bloody hero who used to be a symbol and now is no more than a wounded soldier?

There is a commotion, and steady, purposeful steps approach her.

"Commander Shepard," says admiral Hackett by the way of greeting.

For a fleeting moment her hand curls into a fist and her nails dig into the skin of her palm, but she swallows the lump in her throat and the emotion fades enough to allow her to speak. She is not certain what is it: joy that at least a part of the _Normandy_'s crew is here and she will meet them again in a matter of minutes, gladness she is given back a piece of her life and past that the _Normandy_ is, or relief because whispers are raising again and drowning out the silence.

"Admiral Hackett." Shepard manages a strained smile, certain he is watching her: the stiffness of her posture, caused by the med-corset she is wearing, the scars on her face, and whatever it is in her eyes that makes people gasp in shock.

"Would you like to see your ship, Commander?" Hackett asks, as if nothing changed and she still was the _Normandy_'s commanding officer after these three years.

"Very much," she answers quietly. She will not be able to see much of the _Normandy_ and Hackett is bound to know it by now. How are they going to arrange it so that she would not make a complete fool out of herself?

"Allow me to be your guide," he says simply, then takes her hand gently and tucks it under his arm, ready to lead her.

...

"Shepard!" Joker cries out at seeing her, then hesitates, not really knowing how to behave seeing her at the Fleet Admiral's arm.

She lets go of Hackett and reaches out a hand. "How are you doing, flyboy?"

Joker shakes her hand; she hugs him awkwardly, because of her spine and his brittle bones.

"Good to have you back, Shepard."

"Commander."

Shepard turns. "Doctor Chakwas."

Chakwas holds her for a while, like a mother might. "It's..." she breaks off.

Shepard understands. There are so many questions to be asked and answered, so much to be told. There will be so little time. There is too much emotion for talks.

"Commander!" It is engineer Adams.

Suddenly, they begin talking, everyone at once.

"How are you doing on Jump Zero?"

"We're rebuilding the relays, and Arcturus too! You should've seen it, Shepard, all the works, pretty amazing."

"We got the mass effect core from the Shadow Broker's vessel installed on the _Normandy_. Got us quite troubled, at first, but then admiral Tali'Zorah joined us and the design moved on."

"We're doing fine, as much as we can; I have to check on the core myself someday; how is Tali, how and where is everyone; how have you been?"

"You've got to pause sometimes for breath, Commander," chides Chakwas, only half-seriously.

They talk and talk, fast, interrupting one another, finishing each other's sentences. Yes, they are trying to rebuild Gagarin Station, and she is assisting the chief engineer. Tali is with the Flotilla, quarians sustained the smallest loses, compared to all other races, and it is always useful to have them on the team, they can build pretty much everything from scratch. And Wrex, what of Wrex? Yes, he is alive, got picked up by the _Normandy_. Speaking of the _Normandy_: Joker still misses EDI's teasing. Chakwas is planning to stay some time on Jump Zero. That is great news, they are in dire need of another skilled medic and some med equipment. Wait, what about Garrus? He is with the turian fleet for now. We are all working, you know. Liara is barely leaving the Broker's archives, digging for names and contacts, technological notes, locations of hidden mines and facilities. Sur'Kesh survived almost unscathed, so the salarians are helping greatly, re-establishing communication and repairing mass relays. Also, providing medical help. Ah, major Alenko sends his greetings. And Miranda has left her a package, it is waiting in the med bay.

"You must come over for a longer talk, Commander," says Chakwas warmly. "Or invite us. Come, gentlemen, we have cargo to prepare. Commander needs some time alone with memories."

Shepard just nods. The she remembers about Hackett, and feels embarrassed for making him wait, for leaving him without a word. That is not exactly a proper way to behave around an admiral.

She looks around and notices a silhouette outlined by the blurred orb of light that is the galaxy map. "Admiral?"

"I'm here, Commander."

"Sorry for making you wait, sir." She does not really feel sorry for that, but wonders how she could have forgotten him so easily with her friends around.

"Shepard, you can't be serious." Hackett says, without a slightest trace of irritation in his voice. "Sorry? For what? They are your friends, and it's been months. Just forget the regs for a while; we owe you much more than that."

Shepard smiles. "Aye aye, sir."

"Heavens, help me," Hackett mutters, a note of amusement in his tone. "Let's begin the tour, shall we?"

She reaches out, and once again he guides her. Across the whole ship, slowly, without haste, pausing where she wants to stop and allowing her a quiet moment with the memories. When they are standing before the memorial and her fingertips follow the names engraved on the wall, he steps aside, granting her a moment of solitude.

"We've lost so many..." Shepard whispers to herself, thinking of all those who gave up their lives in the last battle, of all the names engraved on no wall and bodies knowing no other grave but the darkness of space.

"We will not forget them."

She turns abruptly, towards the voice that has just spoken right next to her. In the movement, her hand accidentally brushes Hackett's. She wishes she could see his expression. There are words waiting to be said beside this memorial wall, of the war and the dead and of remembering things and of the living, but can be conveyed only by gaze, so Shepard stays silent.

...

Their last stop is the galaxy map. Shepard lingers here. She would wish to see the map again, but it is just a hazy orb of brightness, accentuated by more firm dots of light. There is no way she could see it as she used to.

"Lights," commands Hackett.

Shepard guesses Joker understands the order instantly as the lights on the whole deck go out, and she does see the map a bit more clearly.

Hackett leads her up the steps towards the railing, then takes a step back. Shepard reaches out, fingers finding the well-known buttons, and the map moves, star system hovering closer until she can make out the shapes. Her hand reaches up, brushing the hologram of a star, and another, and another. Mapping her way throughout the galaxy.

"It's a long way," she mutters.

"Yes. A long way."

Shepard concentrates, trying to make out Hackett's silhouette in the gloom. She feels his presence near, close enough so she would know he is there, but far enough not to invade her personal space. With the lights off, though, she can only see the map. Then she notices a shape against the light: Hackett's hand resting on the railing. She reaches out and puts her palm on his; he moves slightly, but does not withdraw his hand. The touch conveys everything words cannot and her eyes are no longer able to: that she is grateful for his kindness and support. For him simply being there.

"Thank you," she whispers, omitting the 'sir'. This very moment, he is no 'sir' to her, not the Fleet Admiral, just Steven Hackett. Just Steven Hackett – as simple as that. As damn complicated as that.

.

.

.

In the critical moment of choice, she hesitates. Control is impossible, the Illusive Man proved that. Synthesis... That seems perfect. Too perfect. After her time with the Reds, after years of service in the Alliance, she does not trust anything that seems perfect, because perfection does not bloody exist. She would be taking a part of life from all the living, and that decision does not belong to her. Synthesis? Why force it after the peace between quarians and the geth has been achieved? Then, in a flash, she remembers a scene from a fight for one of the colonies, and that seals it. Synthesis? With all those husks and hybrids and other atrocities that used to be living, _feeling_ beings? _This_ is what is truly important. Not to forget what they have been fighting for, not to lose what makes them differ from machines. Because if they lose it, the Reapers have already won.

"You're lying," Shepard whispers. She momentarily clenches her teeth in anger. "You synthetic bastards don't have a bloody DNA to be merged with anything."

The star-brat stands still. Before it has time to react, she shoots the core, and that is her choice.

The last thing she sees before the blast is the image of the fighting fleet, burned under her eyelids. As she slips into darkness, she is certain she hears Hackett's voice: _'... and not to yield_'. She smiles. Even if she did not have dozens of other reasons, she would have done it all over again because of those words he said to her.

* * *

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and reviews. They're always welcome :)

About the last paragraph: the crucial argument against the Synthesis option will be mentioned in the next chapter... among other things. Stay tuned.


	7. Luminosity

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and reviews. They're always welcome :)

* * *

**...**

**Luminosity**

**...**

Calling it a welcome party would be a major overstatement, but that is what it is, in lack of better words. There is nothing to eat but the nutrition paste, and nothing to drink but water and the chemical caffeine mixture pretending to be coffee. And there is a steady murmur of talks around the room, interrupted by occasional bursts of laugher. Shepard has initially been the star of the evening, but both Kaminski and Hackett noticed her uneasiness, so Hackett praised Kaminski for his leadership skills, which swiftly turned everyone's attention from Shepard, and then Kaminski artfully ceded all the praises onto his crew and the alien teams. Pretty much everyone's efforts have been appreciated, and then the mood shifted to a more unofficial one, with people talking in pairs or little groups, then walking over to someone else to start a new chat.

Shepard is sitting aside, drinking her "coffee" and listening to the talks. Nearby, doctor Chakwas is chatting with Doc, inquiring about Shepard's condition, but gently, minding the patient is close enough to overhear, and Doc patiently explains as much as he is able to. There will be another examination coming, Shepard knows that Chakwas will not simply let it go, and that will probably be preceded by a thorough medical interview and followed by consulting the case via FTL with Mordin.

Somewhere to the left, Hackett is talking quietly with Kaminski, though of what, she cannot hear. Astrid, all the time sitting next to her and sipping her water in silence, gets up. "Well, I have to snatch the Admiral from Kaminski for a moment."

"You want to ask about Sam's father?"

"Yes." Astrid sighs. "He probably won't know, there are too many names. But he'll know whom to ask."

"You don't need to fear him, you know. He doesn't bite."

"Very funny, Theresa. It just seems a bit out of place to ask when there are so many others separated from their families and searching for contact. I know it'll all take time."

"You'd never forgive yourself if you didn't ask."

"No, I wouldn't. Well, wish me luck." Astrid gets up and walks over to Hackett and Kaminski in fast, energetic steps. "Excuse me, but may I steal a moment of your time, Admiral?"

"Of course. Staff Commander Sheldorn, am I right?"

"Yes, sir. No, no, Leon, stay, it'll just take a minute. Sir," says Astrid, probably turning from Kaminski to Hackett. "There's this boy we've found on Earth, and I wanted to ask if you could check if his father is still alive. Not you personally, of course, but..."

"At ease, Commander." By the tone Hackett says it Shepard can almost imagine the impatient wave of hand, one he employs to dismiss formalities when they get in the way of things too much. "I cannot help much, personally, but if you try contacting Miranda Lawson from the _Normandy_'s terminal, she might be able to help. She's been tracking lost family connections from the very end of the war, and she knows her job."

"Thank you, sir."

"I wasn't of any help. Save all the credit for Miss Lawson."

"Will do, sir."

Shepard smiles, hearing of Miranda. Probably it was the reunion with her sister than made her choose this turn of her career. And probably she was doing well – she was overly-confident and damn annoying 'cause of that at times, but after what she did for her sister, Oriana, Shepard could not dislike her any longer.

There is a commotion, and Shepard hears Wainwright's voice, though being at the door, he is too far for her and the words do not come through clear enough to distinguish them. She catches a movement, and it is Hackett, walking over towards Wainwright quickly.

"Philip! How are you?"

"Steve, Steve... You really thought I'd miss your visit? Damn, man, but you've done well."

"And look who says so."

The voices get closer, as both men are walking somehow in her direction, to the spot where Hackett has been talking with Kaminski a while ago.

"Too much time has passed, since the Academy. Sweet Jesus, is that Karin over there?"

"The very same that patched us up after that first baptism-of-fire mission."

"I need to clone myself or something, can't talk with both of you at once."

"No, I thought not." Hackett's tone indicates he is smiling, the rare, slight smile Shepard has seen maybe once or twice. "Karin's staying on Gagarin. You'll have plenty of time."

"In that case, let's sit somewhere, and pretend this semblance of water is a beer."

"Amen to that." There in an undertone of laughter in Hackett's voice, not that of merriment, but of a deeper contentment, something similar to what Shepard felt while talking to Joker, Chakwas and Adams when the _Normandy_ arrived.

Reunion with friends, thinks Shepard, is a wonderful thing. She hears Katya's chatter as the nurse passed by, and after she asks, Katya accompanies her to the door.

"That's him, isn't it?" Katya asks softly, friendly. "Your Admiral?"

"Stop it, Katya." Shepard is in no mood for this. Besides, no matter how kind Katya is, she has not yet earned the right to ask... even if Shepard herself knew how to pose the question.

"Come on, you know what I meant. The handkerchief guy?"

"Katya. Cut it out. Now."

"Sorry." It is not hard to imagine Katya smiling apologetically. "I know I'm overdoing it sometimes. Mum used to tell me I'm too much like Nellie the nurse from _South Pacific_..."

"Who? From what?"

"Err... nothing. I meant, you know, being so..."

"Annoying?" Shepard hints, though without spite.

"That too. And a romantic knucklehead."

"Ah. That too."

"Want to leave?"

"Yeah. No point in sitting around here. I'd rather visit them on the _Normandy _than talk in a room full of people."

"I'll walk with you. I wanted to call Ryan anyway, see how he's doing." Katya takes her by the arm. "So, where do you want to go?"

"Galileo."

"Okay."

They walk out and continue down the narrow corridor, in silence. Katya cannot bear silence for too long when she is not working – truth to be told, she cannot bear it when she is working either. That is just the way she is.

"It is him, isn't it?" Katya asks, but her voice is no longer playful. "It shows a bit, you know. That you're more like friends than a soldier and her commanding officer."

"But that's what we are: a soldier and her commanding officer. We had a war to win, there was no time for friendship."

"There might be now."

"There might..." Shepard echoes thoughtfully. Hackett is... something, in her life, that is for certain. Shepard just has not figured it out yet, and it seems she is nowhere close to doing so.

...

Shepard is sitting at her usual spot by the wall at Galileo. That is how they call what used to be the major part of the old observatory, now repurposed into something alike the station's major plaza, though it is too big a word. Behind her are the balconies of the best living quarters, and some freshly, hastily finished rooms that are the temporary guest apartments. Her own room is there also, up on the top level. When the outer shutters are opened, the space is visible outside, through layers of glass and transparent plastic. Even though Shepard can no longer see the stars behind the glass, she knows they are out there, and there is something oddly comforting about just the mere thought of it.

Her fingers are closed tightly around a small data disc. A gift from Miranda, though it is difficult to call it a gift. She has not yet listened to most of it, but has copied all the files onto her omni-tool, for later. This, meanwhile, should go to doctor Chakwas, and to Mordin, though Miranda has probably already supplied him with a copy and he is working on it.

The message itself was short, but the gesture itself... Shepard has learnt she can trust Miranda some time before. That message, that data – that is a proof of Miranda's loyalty to her.

—_Shepard,_

_I'm sorry. There was no way to predict this outcome, but I feel responsible for your present condition. And I owe you for Oriana's life. I always pay my debts._

_I'm sending all the files of the Lazarus Project I was able to save. Hope that helps._

_Take care,_

_Miranda _—

Hearing approaching footsteps, Shepard sighs, but makes no move. It must be one of the laws of the universe that she cannot be left alone even for a moment, ever.

"Tired of us already, Commander?"

"Ah, it's you, sir." Sighing inwardly, she gets up. It is not really possible to tell Hackett to go away and besides, he would not go unless he wanted to. But, truth to be told, she does not mind his presence. He has a way of asking things without being intrusive or persistent that makes it easier to talk to him. "Not tired of you, just tired," she adds, answering his question.

"That was a joke."

Laughter bubbles up inside her. "Joking and you look slightly ridiculous together, sir."

"So the commanding officer is not supposed to have sense of humour?"

"No, no, not that. Just... I guess it must be your voice, sir."

"I'll have to live with it, then." This peculiar way he delivers his humorous comments, in that completely serious voice... To think about it, it is quite amusing.

There is a prolonged pause in the conversation. When Hackett speaks again, he is sombre.

"What happened to your eyes?" he asks, in a quieter tone.

"One has to admire you, sir, for waiting so long before asking."

"Commander. I am serious."

"I know. Just... People are usually kind of morbid curious about it, after the first shock wears off. You, sir... Damn, you did not even hesitate. Just went about as if everything was normal."

"So, what was it?" he repeats softly.

"Reaper tech. Well, I guess so. Doc... Doctor Patrick Roche has no idea what exactly happened. Med examination results were inconsistent. It would take Mordin to solve it. Mordin Solus," she clarifies, for Hackett does not know her friends by their first names or alias.

"In all likelihood, doctor Solus would be able to help." There is a hint of sympathy in Hackett's voice, but no pity, and she is grateful for it. "What happened back then? On the Citadel?"

"You wouldn't believ-... Damn, knowing you, sir, you probably _would_ believe me. But maybe some other time."

"As you wish, Commander. Was it... that terrible?"

"Just... scary. The scale of it all, of the choice... That choice wasn't supposed to be mine, or anyone else's."

"No, it wasn't. Like some other choices you had to take."

"You would know, sir."

They go silent again, but it is not uncomfortable. It is just the impossibility to move fluently from one topic to another, when they would prefer never to mention some that have to be talked over.

"Sir," she says suddenly. There is one answer no one so far was brave enough to give. Hackett will not back down. "One question?"

"Speak freely, Commander."

"How do my eyes look?" No one told her, but the sight makes most people go silent for an awkwardly long moment, or gasp, or try not to look at her, so she guesses it is far from pleasant.

Hackett touches her chin gently, motioning her to turn so that they stand face to face. He does not respond immediately, but looks at her, unwavering. "Light is gone from them," he says finally. "As if something burnt them down from the inside." The words sound harsh even despite his softer tone.

She swallows, then nods slowly.

"Thank you..." she whispers. "For sincerity."

"Damn it, Shepard, you deserve more than that."

She closes her eyes, and the smile floating up onto her lips is painful.

"I got more," her voice hitches momentarily, but immediately she reigns it in. "My friends are alive. I am alive. And I've got someone who will tell me the truth no matter what." It is clear she is talking of him.

"And I will continue to do that." Hackett touches her shoulder lightly. "Just wish I had some less unpleasant truth to tell."

His touch makes her yearn for some physical contact: a clasp of hands, a hug a friend could give, anything, really. She raises her hand and her fingertips brush his arm, feather-lightly, but she does not dare ask. He is the Fleet Admiral, and there are lines in the chain of command that should not be crossed.

This all must be written on her face clearly, for after a moment of hesitation, marked by another fleeting touch of his palm to her shoulder, Hackett embraces her. She weaves her hands under his arms and clings to him, cheek leaning against his shoulder, drowning into the feeling. This is bliss: the warmth, the simple closeness, the way it makes her not only know but _feel_ she is not alone. His brief embrace is friendly, nothing more, and the most awkward thing about it is how it does not feel awkward at all, but completely right. Hackett has a gift of making things not only seem, but actually be easier: if something needs to be said or done, if something feels right, he simply says or does it. Just like that. Just like he is doing now.

The whole thing lasts no longer than a few seconds, but it is enough. Like that moment when she found out the Fleet was still out there, that her friends were alive, like the moment she heard Hackett's voice via the comm, like the moment she met with her friends again onboard the _Normandy_. She takes in a breath, and it seems the air quivers inside her, a warm current, except it is not the air. It is the certainty she is not alone. That she never will be.

"Feeling better, Commander?"

"Yes. Much, much better." For once, she does not wonder why Hackett does it. All that matters is that he does.

...

It is her own scream that wakes her up. She brushes a strand of hair off her forehead: it's damp with sweat. All of a sudden, the room seem suffocating, and Shepard crawls out of the bed and finds her way to two light-grey rectangles of the glass panes visible in the dark. She touches a small blinking button, and the door opens. Shepard steps out onto a balcony joining a few small apartments of Galileo.

The steel railing, cold under her hands, somehow grounds her to reality, but the images from the nightmare are still there, hovering under her eyelids.

Something – someone – moves on the balcony, a few apartments away. Someone – it is definitely someone, most probably a man, judging by the silhouette – approaches her.

"Is everything all right?" The voice that asks the question belongs to Hackett.

Of course. Most of the guest rooms are on the same level; Hackett probably went out to watch the tiny plaza and the telescope parts assembled together into something of a sculpture – a memorial. Shepard can just make it out down there, in the middle of the square, marked by a single point of brightness – a vigil light for the lost.

"I'm fine." In the cool air of the station, with a damp T-shirt clinging to her back, she shivers.

"I've heard a scream." He comes a little closer, but still keeps at distance.

"Nightmares," she replies flatly, hoping he would let the topic drop.

Hackett touches her hand briefly. "You're cold."

"I'm fine."

"You need sleep."

"I'm fine."

"You should be resting. And that's an order."

She gapes. "Are you seriously pulling rank on me, sir?"

Hackett's shoulders move in what she assumes is a shrug. "Any reason I shouldn't?"

Shepard mutters under her breath.

"Goddamn pain in the neck?" Hackett does not sound annoyed, just vaguely amused. "Commander, surely you can do better."

She sighs. "I'm fi-..."

"No, damn it, you're not. You don't want to talk about it – that's fine by me. But be reasonable."

Shepard sighs again. "Fine."

He puts and arm around her shoulders, so lightly he is barely even touching her, and walks her back into her room. She lets him. She lets him steer her towards the bed, then sits down and pulls her legs up onto the mattress as Hackett is searching for the blanket which has fallen to the floor.

Shepard presses her hand against her mouth, stifling a sudden sob. Go away, she screams inwardly, please, please, go away, she frantically repeats over and over, because if he puts that damn blanket over her she will crumble into a million pieces.

Hackett does something worse. He puts the blanket over her legs, and then she feels the mattress dip as he sits down next to her.

"Theresa, what is it?" he asks quietly, and this, him calling her by her name rather than by her rank, is too much.

Shepard bursts into tears. She is sobbing silently, hands clasped over her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks.

Hackett pulls her towards him, resting her head against his shoulder, one arm across her back, hand against her shoulder blade, his other hand in her hair, fingers tangled in the strands and gently stroking her head.

"It was a dream. Just a dream."

"It was real." Her tears are soaking his shirt as she finally speaks. "During the invasion, in one of the colonies... There was this girl... I can't stop dreaming about her. I can't." Once she began, words are spilling out of her mouth on their own accord and do not want to cease. "They're evacuating the colony, and there's this woman calling her... And then the husks come, out of nowhere. The woman screams, but the girl is not running away... And then... Then... This husk is coming at her, and... she..." Shepard grasps the front of Hackett's shirt, holding as tight as she can. She stifles a sob against his shoulder. "She cries out: 'Daddy!'... and... it hesitates, just for a moment... before it kills her. I shoot it. Him. The woman is screaming as Vega pulls her into the shuttle... The only thing I hear is the kid's cry..."

"Brave girl," Hackett murmurs soothingly, holding her close. There is soft determination to his tone. "You brave, brave girl."

The tears finally subside, and she is suddenly aware of how close he is. She moves her head up slightly and inhales against his neck, but she just smells some laundry chemicals from the apparently clean shirt and warmth that is another human being. In a way, this feels a bit like Ilos felt: that burning need to keep fear and nightmares away.

Hackett gently pulls away from her, but she does not let go of his shirt, not letting him move away. Instead, she raises her head so that she is now facing him, her breath warm on his mouth.

He kisses her. The kiss is gentle, or rather would be if she did not kiss him back, hand sneaking towards the back of his neck and pulling him closer. He tilts her head back slightly and kisses her again, matching her insistence so they part somewhat out of breath.

"Steven..." she breaths out, a hoarse whisper, her palms splayed flat against his chest.

Hackett pulls away. "No, Theresa." His tone is soft, but firm. "Not out of despair."

Shepard freezes momentarily, then realizes he is right. After long months of unwavering trust, he deserves better. And she, too, deserves better than a friendship sacrificed for one night of solace. She nods, then touches his face gently, fingertips brushing his cheek.

Still, she does not let go of his shirt, and when she lies down on the bed, she pulls him with her. He makes no protest, just pulls the blanket over them both and puts his arms around her. Shepard leans into him.

His fingers keep stroking her head, soothing. "I'll keep the nightmares at bay," he says quietly.

...

She is falling. There is nothing to hold onto, just void, and by this she knows this is Alchera all over again. Fighting for every breath, desperately trying to fight, but she cannot see, nothing but darkness and vague shapes, a blurry spot of light here and there, and by this she knows it is but a dream. The knowledge does not make it easier.

She is trying to stop it, to do something, _anything_, or to wake up, but she cannot. Then, suddenly, she hears a voice under the helmet, as if a distant call via the comm.

"_Wake up, Theresa._"

She thrashes one last time, then stops fighting and gives into the fall.

"_Theresa, wake up._"

She slows down, the darkness around her more dense, lessening the momentum, and when she feels first brushes of warmth, it is not from plummeting into the atmosphere but because she lands, softly and safely, into someone's embrace.

Shepard blinks, slowly trying to move. She recognizes the familiar mattress under her back – she is in her own bed. And not alone. The scene from barely a couple of hours earlier comes back to her in vivid flashes. Ah. Slowly, lightly, she moves her hand, to check if the man lying beside her is real, and when she inhales he smells of the same mixture of crisp clean shirt and human warmth. For a moment, she keeps listening, but Hackett's breaths come in even intervals, indicating he is asleep.

He is holding her, which feels a little like a ghost's touch because of the damned med-corset she forgot to take off for sleep, and she moves closer to him. His hands move to hold her closer, and she realises the sly bastard was just pretending to be asleep. She burrows her face against his neck. In the morning, it all would be gone, dispelled by the artificial daylights of the station, but for now, she was going to cross every damn border he would let her. She needs to _feel_ again, she needs a moment of peace, and that is exactly what he can offer. And he has kept the nightmares at bay, she realises, finally recognizing the voice from the dream as Hackett's.

"It was just a dream." He whispers, his voice barely more audible than a breath. "Just a bad dream."

She clings to him, determined to make the most of the comfort of his arms around her. "Not a bad dream," she mutters, thinking not of the dream but of this moment right here and now, knowing her confession would be inconsequential by the morrow.

"Sleep, Theresa."

"Yes..." It seems her mind is still asleep, soft and blurry at the edges like a cotton wool ball. "Yes, I will."

"Goodnight." His breath hovers over her temple for an instant.

"Will be good," she mumbles. "You gave your word. You always keep to your word..." She falls asleep before she manages to tell him more.

...

In the morning, when Shepard wakes up, Hackett is gone, no trace of his presence but for a hollow on the pillow. She puts her face there, trying to catch the ghost of any warmth that might have remained. Then she reaches into the drawer of her nightstand and pulls out the handkerchief. She fingers the material, searching for the stitched letters.

She tries to think it over a few times, but comes to the same conclusion over and over again. She _wants_ it. Not out of despair. Because his trust in her never wavered, and because he makes her feel safe. Because he knows how strong she can be, and lets her be weak when she needs it most. Because of his confidence, self-control and decisiveness. And, though she considers no real reason at all, immaterial and just plain stupid, she likes his voice. And damn, he kissed her first, and stayed with her to watch over her sleep.

Shepard smiles to herself. In all the stories, the hero saves the galaxy and gets the girl. So, hells, she was going to get the Admiral.


	8. Infrared

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and reviews. They're always welcome :)

* * *

**...**

**Infrared**

**...**

The decision was easy enough to make – Shepard is more surprised at why it has never occurred to her before – but time and space seem to pose more of a problem. She has to get to talk to Hackett, but there is always someone else around, and those rare moment she has almost managed to talk to him alone, twice or thrice maybe, he had no time, hurrying between one duty and another.

Right now, they are both in the conference room with the Gagarin engineering team. Hackett is looking through plans of the Charon relay reestablishment, talking mainly with Wainwright and Vaeto, sometimes asking for a more detailed explanation, sometimes even making a suggestion. Clearly, he has some experience on the matter. Other engineers are swarming around, as each of them has something to say on one of various details of the plans.

Shepard is waiting aside, perched on the edge of a desk – her spine will give her hell for it later, but at the moment, she could not care less. She is sipping water slowly, but most of the time just holding the cup, as it is some way to keep her hands busy.

Someone passes by her, then interrupts the talk to consult something with Wainwright. The station's gravity generators, if she catches the name correctly, and the topic hints that the one asking is Stanley Njima. One of the generators has probably stopped working again; well, there is rarely a day without some part of equipment causing minor troubles.

On his way out of the room, Njima stops beside her for a moment.

"Something wrong? I've never seen you that quiet, Shepard."

"Can't say much about repairing the relays, so I can as well keep silent. Just have nothing better to do. Most of our work is on hold for this afternoon."

"Yeah, guess Big W's a bit busy right now. Want a coffee?"

"You call that coffee, Njima? What have you been drinking all your life, chicory?"

"Guess that means no. Okay, see you later."

"I've heard you're leaving for Earth for some time?"

"Yeah. They've found some ship parts, now want me to make a ship out of it."

"Sounds like fun."

"Incredible. Wanna go, too? Ah, no? Thought so. So long, Shepard."

"Godspeed to you."

"You don't have to go all formal on me, you know."

"It's not... No, it's nothing. Take care, Njima."

Shepard does not hear Stanley leaving. Her thoughts are away, transferred light-years back by the phrase that came to her mind seemingly out of nowhere. She glances towards the centre of the room, and thinks she can distinguish which of the shadows she can see Hackett is. Well, she cannot be certain, but judging by the cap – if what she notices is a cap – it is him.

Those were his words. _Godspeed to you, Commander_. Back when she was not yet aware he could mean more to her... and still, it were his words she recalled most clearly back there on the Citadel. The more she thinks of it, the more obvious it seems. Lines of probability, crossing, a natural flow of things. When she thinks of him, there is this feeling... Damn, she cannot pinpoint it, she had never been that good with naming her emotions when they happened to be that tangled. He is solid, he is certain. He... he is a safe landing, Shepard realises, exactly what she needs right now. A haven.

He is also a royal pain in the neck when he wants to, like now. It would take but a talk, and he makes no move at all. If anything, she has the impression he took half a step back. And she cannot just approach him in a room full of people and say that concerning their night talk a few day ago, she is now certain despair is not a factor.

The meeting is coming to the end, some of the engineers already leaving. Shepard waits patiently as Hackett continues to talk with Wainwright.

"Shepard." Wainwright is the first to notice she has not left. "What is it?"

She gets up. The might be no better occasion than this. "Admiral Hackett? A word with you, sir?"

"Of course, Commander." He moves, turning to Wainwright again for a moment. "Don't forget to prepare the plans, Philip. Maybe the asari will be able to help."

"Will do. Off with you, Steve." Wainwright waves his hand, literally shooing Hackett out of the room... which really should not make her want to laugh that much.

Hackett walks over to her. "All yours, Commander." He flicks his omni-tool to life briefly and takes a glance at it. "For about five minutes."

"Won't take that long."

He reaches out to take the empty cup from her, but she stops him decisively, withdrawing her hand.

"Thank you, sir, but no. I'm self-sufficient enough." Her tone is a tad too harsh; she does not need this, she is capable of taking care of herself. As if to prove that, she sets the cup onto the desk, with audible clatter. This sudden surge of irritation is unnecessary, but she cannot hold it back even though she knows better than this.

"I don't doubt that." His tone is even; he takes the scolding gracefully. "You wanted to talk?"

"Would you mind coming over for a cup of coffee, sir?"

"And to talk about good old times?" The tone of his voice almost makes it possible to imagine the slight quirk of his brow, an expression she has seen on him only once, something between jesting and lightest irony.

Shepard nods. "Something like that, yes."

"I'm sorry, Commander, I have an appointment. There's still a Fleet I have to look after," he reminds.

"I didn't mean now. Just when you'd have time."

"How about in two hours?"

"In two hours is fine. Sir," she adds, in an afterthought. _I will get the answer out of you, Admiral_, she promises silently, both to herself and him. _I will_.

...

The light markers outlining the sparse furnishing of her room are on, so that she can move around more easily, but to make them visible more clearly the lighting power has to be toned down, leaving the room in semi-darkness. This must look surreal, Shepard thinks. It would certainly look so to her. Not that it does not look surreal now, when most of what she can see are just the outlines.

There is a hiss of door being opened, and admiral Hackett enters. She can already recognize his step: energetic, confident, decisive. He usually moves as if he owns the place. Now, though, he hesitates: it lasts but a split of a second, but Shepard catches the momentary break of rhythm to his pace.

She wanted to play the host, but thinks it over and decides against it. Hackett would probably bravely sit through the visit, talk and everything, but altogether that seems a little too much to put him through.

"The panel on the right," she says. In a moment all that she can see are vague shapes in various shades of grey, and a more distinct-shaped shadow as Hackett comes closer. "Have I scared you, sir?"

"Not quite. That was just... unexpected." Apparently, he notices she is getting up. "No, no, stay seated. No need to fuss."

"That's the easier way."

He does not comment how this way seems many things but easy, and she does not say there is no easier way at all, and he does not express sympathy. Shepard is grateful for it.

"Take a sit, sir. Coffee is ready." She indicates the table, where on a tray there is a steaming kettle and two plastic cups. The 'coffee' is an artificial-flavoured caffeine drink, developed by Suzy Chiang, their only precious biotechnologist, and it contains mainly water and some chemistry.

"Smells like heaven," Hackett comments dryly, pouring the drink which smells a bit like an asphalt road on a hot day, so it is better to cease breathing while drinking.

"One can't not appreciate your sense of humour, Admiral." Before she reaches out for coffee – the cup is marked with a fluorescent sticker – Hackett gently guides her hand towards it. He never asks if she needs help, just takes over and does these little things.

"Time for small-talk, Commander?" he asks.

"Why not just a normal talk? I know a great deal about you, sir, just... not the everyday, human things."

"I thought we have regs about that." So now he is trying to use the regs as a shield. After he has kissed her and spent a night in her bed. Splendid.

She is not going to let him go that easily. Not when she finally knows what is it she wants – and she wants _him_.

"I don't think I've ever witnessed a more obvious evasive manoeuvre... Don't try to hide behind regs, sir." Shepard fingers the rim of the cup. She is not afraid to say it, but does not feel quite comfortable about it either. "What you did for me during the war was beyond the usual chain of command stuff. Things a friend would have done."

"There was no time for friendship." There is a slightest hitch to his voice, as if he might be regretting that.

"No, there wasn't."

For a while, they sip their coffee in silence. Shepard feels like stumbling at invisible obstacles. The silence between them is not that quiet understanding they have reached a few times; it is the sound of unsaid words and thoughts kept back. Hackett is deliberately creating a distance between them, whatever his reasons, and it turns out surprisingly difficult to breach. She is trying to find a more neutral topic, one that would get him more at ease and... She just wants to talk with him like they used to.

A flash from the past, like a revelation.

"Sir? Do you by any chance have any news of Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard?"

"Safe and sound, currently in command of the SSV _Orizaba_. A relative?" Hackett seems more comfortable with this topic.

"No. Though... You could say so, I guess." Shepard closes her eyes, the picture from years before still clear beneath her eyelids, and smiles. "She was the face on the Fleet posters back when I was eighteen. I thought, why not. She looked happy... in that no-nonsense kind of way."

"That was why you enlisted?" He sounds genuinely interested.

"That was because of... many things." She pauses, but Hackett does not pressure her. He had seen her dossier many times, he knows much and it is a good bet he guesses a great deal more. But this was about feelings, not just facts, and... she can tell him. She realises she wants to tell him, and to earn the right to ask about his past in turn. "Things were getting rough in the gang. Then I saw that woman on a poster, and she looked like she had a goal, a reason. And, anyway, I always wanted to travel and see the stars."

"A romantic, aren't you?"

Shepard shakes her head. "Lost it long ago somewhere along the way."

"And your name? A coincidence?"

"Pretended it was. But I just borrowed it from the poster lady. Figured out she wouldn't mind. After all, I could say it was a coincidence."

"She would be proud if she knew this," Hackett says solemnly.

"Would you tell her for me one day, sir?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." He probably smiles, because his tone changes a little. "And your real name? Or is this information classified?"

"It's on the need to know basis. No one needs to know."

Hackett notices the slight lift of intonation at the end of the sentence, an indication there is more she wanted to say. "But?" he prompts.

"Tarkowski," she says in answer, because what reason there is in telling him it would not hurt if he knew when she can just tell him her name and he will know the rest anyway? It is what both of them prefer: simplicity. "Inherited from my grandfather, along with the knack for engineering. Never knew mother or father; grandparents brought me up... I was twelve when..." She breaks off. Amazing, how after all the time it still hurts, maybe more so because of all the years she has been trying not to think of it. "You know the rest of the story from my dossier."

"Yes. The Academy. Third degree battle engineering."

"And you, sir?"

"What about me?"

"Basically... everything."

"I find it hard to believe your friend doctor T'Soni doesn't have files on me."

"She has. I've just never read them. Except for one. Thank you for not letting the Alliance interrogate me after it came out I was with Cerberus for the time being."

"Ah. That..." He pauses. "It would take a fool not to see some parts were missing. After Akuze, after your hunt of those Cerberus projects, was I to believe you suddenly switched sides? You, a paragon of an Alliance soldier?"

"They had a worthy goal, for once." She smiles. "Would have been a shame to miss it." She takes a breath. There is one thing she has been thinking over for the last months, since the end of the war. "Sir, about that soldier part... I'd like to hand in my resignation."

Hackett stays quiet for a moment. "Very well, Commander." He does not sound surprised, just... regretful. "I will see about that before my departure." He sighs. "About your earlier question: born in Buenos Aires. After my mother died, I got signed up for an educational programme. Wound up in the Fleet a few years after. Then, the Academy. Got a degree – you'd be proud – in engineering."

"Engineering? And to think you reproached me about what 'we engineers' do..."

"I'm first degree, so I can do that."

"What speciality?"

"Starship engines mechanics, design and construction. Also, navigation. Plus some mass effect physics courses."

"Mass effect?"

"It was still an enticing novelty then."

"You must have loads of work now."

"I'm not of any real use with that. The asari know much more about the relays than we do. And no species beats the salarians when it comes to science."

"Why just first degree?"

"Got a promotion. Figured out that I need to re-profile if I wanted to be an effective leader. I thought it was best to understand what I'll have my people do, try and see all the things myself."

"Sounds impressive."

"And that's about it. I have just the basics covered, so any specialist in a given field can beat me."

"Except in rhetoric."

"Practice. Lots of practice."

"I hope your XO gets a decent pay."

Hackett laughs quietly, a low and unexpectedly pleasant sound. "You're _so_ kind."

"Third degree, and soon to be a civic engineer. I can do that."

"Pulling degrees on me, Commander?"

"Pulling ranks on me again, sir?"

"Have to make the most of it while I still can." Hearing his tone, serious on the surface, underlined with just a slightest hint of amusement, makes Shepard smile. "You will be missed in the Alliance, Commander."

"Not trying to talk me out of it, sir?"

"No." There is a slight creak of the sofa as he gets up. "I know you don't rush into things. So if you say this is your decision, I accept it." He pauses. "Ever thought what are you going to do next?"

"Help here... well, with what I can. There's still so much to do. I thought..." She breaks off, wondering how to put it into words best. "I want to build something, for once, instead of destroying. Then... I thought maybe I could teach somewhere, make some use of that third degree."

"We're planning to revive the Grissom Academy on Arcturus. How does that sound to you?"

"Grissom?" She has been thinking of a quiet academy or an engineering college once everything more or less came back to normal, someplace quiet, where she could hide, maybe even opening an engineering school here on Gagarin. But Commander Shepard teaching at Grissom?

Hackett sighs. "You must realize that Gagarin Station has no future, not now. There are other priorities."

"I... Yes." Yes, she has been thinking of that often. The Earth and most bases in the Sol system were burned down to the ground. And Jump Zero is currently barely more than a few dozen people on a makeshift space station that was build out of despair and the instinct of survival. "How much time do I have?"

"Until we rebuild the relays? We're talking of a year and a half. Approximately two."

Shepard nods. "Will the post at Grissom be still available by then?"

"It will be your post, Commander." His footsteps are audible right behind her. "So, yes."

Shepard tilts her head up, towards his voice, and smiles at the dark silhouette that she know is admiral Hackett. "I hope it'll still be possible for us to talk from time to time. Sir."

"I should hope so. We'll think of something, Commander." He is infuriating with this endless 'Commander' of his, firmly setting the distance between them back into what it used to be during the war. "I'm glad you accepted," he says simply, putting a hand on her shoulder lightly, leaving a warm print there, one she imagines she can feel long after he leaves the room.

...

Upon returning to her quarters after another day of work, she meets Kaminski right at her own door.

"Theresa, I've been looking for you."

"Leon, can it wait? I could fall asleep standing."

"Just wanted to tell you that Rita and Andriej have finished working on the comm. Separating the channels will have to wait, but you can now access the FTL from your omni-tool." Kaminski clasps her hand briefly. "So, goodnight?" he asks, with a laugher.

"The goodnight will have to wait. Giving me a new working tech when I need to sleep... That's outright cruel."

"And here I thought I was being nice."

"Be nice and tell me if there is something worth listening to on my FTL."

"Actually, yes, there's something from the Fleet. From Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard."

...

Shepard speaks the order out, and her omni-tool begins playing the message. Hannah Shepard's voice is different that she has imagined, more befitting a typical mother figure than an Alliance Admiral.

— _From: Rear Admiral Hannah Shepard_

_Commander:_

_Shall you pass by Arcturus, let me know. An acquaintance of ours told me you would like to talk to me. Well, I certainly would like to meet my distinguished namesake._

_You did one hell of a job during the war._

_Good luck with everything, Commander. I look forward to meeting you someday._

_Hannah Shepard _—

Shepard pushes the replay button, and listens to the message once more. An acquaintance, of course. Hackett. But she spoke with about that him barely two days ago.

She sighs. Considering the current state of things, this is becoming complicated. And Hackett, damn him, does nothing to make things clear. Having kissed her and held her to sleep, he again keeps the distance between them... and then does something like this.

"Dammit," she mutters. It is annoying the hell out of her.

Then again, usually, whatever he does, he does it for a reason. She is certain she will get the answer out of him, sooner or later. The thing is, it probably will be no sooner than he decides the time is right. It is just that Shepard wants him to say it out loud right now.

...

The light is a soft smear of bright grey against darker shades, highlighting the fantastic lines and curves of the memorial. Old telescope parts... This seemed odd, at first, but once she started thinking about it, she discovered it was more than fitting. A telescope... Those lost died so they, who survived, might see the stars. Shepard feels a sudden, piercing sadness, but quenches the feeling almost instantly. There is no point, she reminds herself, shaking her head gently. There is no point...

She has never been this sentimental, but back there, on the Citadel, something broke within her, and she can feel the shards inside. That moment when she realised she was up there alone, and the fate of the galaxy was quite literally in her hands... She could get past memories and nightmares eventually, but there was no way to quite get past something like _that_.

Shepard hears approaching footsteps, the rhythm familiar – how could it became familiar so, so quickly? The steps sound softer than usual; he is not just walking by, he slows down and stops beside her. So he came to talk. Of her resignation, probably, she corrects the thought, dragging herself back down to the proverbial earth.

"You seem to be spending an awful lot of time here, Commander. No, don't get up." Hackett puts a hand on her shoulder and presses down lightly when she tries to get up regardless. He does not sigh, but his voice, when he speaks again, is weary. "Shepard. Stop it."

"You're still my commanding officer, sir."

"So as your commanding officer I hereby order you to stop fussing. You've been as much a leader as I have, during the war. Maybe more than I have. Do you really think that after that rank still does matter?"

"It does, now. Again."

"Shepard..."

"All right, all right." She raises both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I yield. We'll have it your way, sir. No more fussing."

"Wonderful. Would you be so kind and let me sit?"

"Oh." She moves hastily, making a place for him on the crate which is serving as a temporary bench. She is careful to leave some space between them, but as Hackett sits down she can feel a suggestion of warmth next to her. Or maybe it is just the movement of air stirring as he sits.

"You didn't answer me," he says, though without insistence. It is just a remark that she could ignore if she wanted.

She does not want to ignore it. Dammit, whatever it is she can have with Hackett, she is going to grasp at it. "Yes. It's..." She lets out a breath, an audible sign of exasperation. "I had a few things I wanted to think over. It helps, sitting there." She pauses. "You asked about the Citadel once, sir."

"You don't have to answer."

"I wasn't going to, not yet. But... There's something else. Something I thought I've left behind me, but can't stop thinking of, not since the Citadel. Not since..." She closes her eyes briefly.

"Since this?" Hackett's fingertips cup her face gently as his thumb feather-lightly brushes along her closed eyelid. The unexpected touch, almost tender, makes Shepard go stone-still; he reads it as discomfort and withdraws his hand. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

She interrupts him. "I don't mind. It was just... startling, a bit. By the way, your guess is right, sir."

"Was it that difficult when Cerberus revived you as you now feel about the Citadel?" he asks.

Shepard's breath hitches in her throat. How does he do it? How it is he know it all, know her so well? "Different," she says. "Similar, but different."

Tactfully, he keeps quiet, respecting her right to make that decision all on her own. But... She _was_ over it, mostly, and yet... Maybe it would help to confess her doubts, to say it out loud and thus let go of it.

"They gave me back my body, but it wasn't my own. When I looked into the mirror the face was no longer mine; they took away my scars. As if the past was insignificant... As if I could _ever_ forget. I thought I got past it, but now... I'm beginning to wonder how much of me is there in me, aside from Reaper tech and implants and God only knows what else."

"Shepard, let me tell you something." His voice is low, but determined. "You are not the body they rebuild, not your eyes. The real you, it's something more. Something no one can take away if _you_ won't let them."

"Then what am I?"

"_Yourself_." The way he says the word, with such force, as if he could inspire her with that single word... Shepard has no idea how this can work, but it does.

She turns her face towards him, seeing his silhouette outlined clearly against the vigil light of the memorial. "And what does it mean to _you_, sir?" The question is quiet, but clear. She really is asking what does _she_ mean to him.

"I think you already know that." His tone is calm, neutral even, with just a slightest hint of deeper emotion.

Up until now, she guessed. This – the answer could not get much clearer than this. He does not say it straightforwardly, he probably will not, not until he knows her mind, trying not to complicate things. But he hides nothing either.

They remain silent for a few seconds.

"You resignation is ready, Commander." Hackett says finally.

"I, Commander Shepard, soldier of the Systems Alliance..." It is difficult to say it aloud. She does not have to, this is just a tradition from the very beginnings of the Alliance Fleet... But she would like to do it properly. For once. But the words get stuck in her throat.

"Are you absolutely sure?" asks Hackett quietly.

Shepard takes a breath. She _is_ certain. Had she to fight again, she would, but she has seen her share of fights and will not willingly continue this life, even if that meant giving up on a part of herself. Maybe it will not make the nightmares disappear, but at least there will be no material for new ones.

"I am." She hesitates. She is not ready to change the boundaries between her and Hackett so soon, not until everything is sorted out between them, and maybe it would just be easier if he remained a 'sir' to her while he is on the station. "Can it wait until your departure... sir?"

The slight pause preceding his answer tell her clearly Hackett is surprised at her request. "Of course. Commander," he adds, in an afterthought. He gets up. "Duty calls."

"As always."

"One question, Commander."

"I can't really refuse, can I?"

"You always can."

She nods at him to continue. If there is someone she would least refuse an answer, it is him.

"About the delay... Afraid of your freedom so much, Commander?"

Strangely, she does not hesitate a second before giving him the answer. "Not more than you, sir."

This way, it is still up to him to decide which lines can be crossed, and when; for some reason, it seems fitting right now. And yet she guesses he will cross no lines, not with the ranks still between them, because it would not be proper. Theoretically, he is in full control of the situation, he just cannot do much with it anyway. This is her little payback for earlier, when instead of simply talking to her and proceeding further with their relationship he took a step back. He _has_ to know it what it is all about.

The way Hackett's silhouette freezes momentarily at her comment – just a slightest lapse of self-control – tells Shepard he indeed does know. Yet just as she thinks she has finally caught him defenceless, he proves her wrong.

"You must know these things do not work one-way, Theresa," he says, then walks away.

There is no way in hell she could have put Hackett back in control of the situation, because he never lost it.


	9. Interference

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and reviews. They're always welcome :)

* * *

**...**

**Interference**

**...**

The door opens just as Shepard raises her hand to knock – something she never did while commanding the _Normandy_, but things have changed.

"Commander, welcome. Come in." Chakwas takes her by the arm and leads her to a chair.

Shepard makes no protest. Once, she would have, since she definitely can see that much most of the time, and she would rather do it on her own. But next to the part of her that will always be the stubborn soldier, there is Theresa Shepard, now knowing yet who she is exactly, and that other part of her does not want to hurt the good doctor. Chakwas has always been something of a friend, and her need to help does not come out of pity. Therefore, Shepard can accept it.

"Doctor Chakwas."

"I'm afraid there'll be no brandy this time, Commander. But I've got something better, or so I hope, we'll just have to wait for another few minutes..." Chakwas is interrupted by a beep of the computer, signalling an incoming call. "Ah, here it is." The doctor leans over the console.

"_Doctor Chakwas. Checked the data. Have prepared initial prognosis. Much work ahead of us._"

"Mordin!" The familiar chatter makes Shepard feel as if another piece of the puzzle was falling into place. A few more, and she would be able to see the whole picture again.

"_Shepard._" He takes her presence for granted, apparently he must have been informed earlier that she would come."_Good to hear you. Doing steady progress on the material Miranda Lawson gave me. Prognosis..._"

"How are you faring?"

"_Thought you'd want to hear prognosis first? Excessive welcomes waste of time. Setting to work immediately much better. So far, prognosis good. First stage of eye-treatment almost ready. Doctor Chakwas been of help great. Will proceed to spine restoration planning now. Then, colour vision. Will take time. But should be able to patch you up completely._"

"Mordin, you're a treasure."

"_A friend thing to do, no? Have to work, much, much work ahead. Will contact you later. Take care, Shepard._"

Shepard cannot stop herself from snickering as she turns to Chakwas. "Does he ever let you say anything?"

"I get my share of talking, most of the time. He's been working on it since we've got the data..."

"So you have it? And I thought I should give you a copy..."

"I received mine two days after we got here. Mordin got his earlier, done most of the work on his own. I'm jealous of his skills, sometimes."

"No reason to, doctor. You've saved our assess often enough."

"Just doing my job."

"Not 'just'. You're a true doctor, you know, one of those with vocation. It shows."

The conversations stumbles. It is slowly beginning to tire her – trying to talk, after such a long time, as if nothing happened and nothing changed. She is not very good at it. Sure, she can handle these things when there is something to do together, because that is her job, leading towards a common goal, she can inspire people and make them follow her, but sometimes she gets the impression that actually being with people – like, truly, not just making conversation about nothing, but _talking_ – is the more difficult part. Or maybe it is because she still cannot get past the damn feeling of being slightly lost. It is her, and it is not her, and this annoys the hell out of her. Because she could do it all well enough, but is used to doing so while being able to see the way before her. It is a little different only with Hackett, but that is because he always knows what to say, and anyway, it was bound to get a bit awkward between them at this stage.

"Your scars are back," remarks Chakwas finally.

"Yes. Almost in all the right places." Corner of Shepard's lips moves, but it is not quite a smile, yet not a grimace either. Just a reaction to how she feels about that – another fragment is back in place. Another brick to rebuild her life with. "Felt odd without them."

"Understandable." Chakwas pauses. "I remember checking up on you after Eden Prime. And your first med check, when I decided against asking about that scar on your cheek, remembering you've been on Akuze. Guess I was afraid of the answer."

"Seen from here, Akuze seems a tad less horrifying. Just a little." Shepard sighs. There will be time for such talks, maybe. With another bottle of brandy, or whatever liquor could have survived in the Sol. "Could you tell me some more about the treatment?"

"Not much more to say now, unless you'd like some medical jargon. We'll start with monochrome vision, but even that will take time. Then, maybe your spine, but I'm afraid we'll need salarian or asari tech. Well, or at least Mordin Solus. Then we'll try with the colours, but I can't make any promises here. That's more some high biotech than medicine, if I understood Mordin correctly."

"Just seeing clearly would be great. For a start, at least."

"Don't worry, Shepard, we'll get you there. Can we arrange a full med examination? I've talked with doctor Roche, but I'd like to see for myself, just in case. Plus, I'll be consulting Mordin via the comm on that. Live, if it can be arranged. That, however, will have to wait for a while. Sorry about the inconvenience, but I'm moving the lab to Gagarin."

"I hope Doc has promised to help?"

"Doc? Oh, doctor Roche?" Chakwas laughs. "You'll have to tell me about this alias of his one day."

"Deal."

...

Getting out of the elevator on her way out of the _Normandy_, she almost bumps into Hackett. Of course. Life must have a really weird sense of humour...

"I'm sorry, Commander", he says when he briefly touches her elbows, reaching out to steady her.

She mumbles something about it being all right and intends to walk away, without talking, as there is an air of haste about him – probably again on his way from one duty to another. Hackett feels her move and stops her, only then letting go and stepping back.

"We're leaving in two days," he announces.

There is really nothing she can say to that. Nothing she could say would be able to stop him; obligations would always go first. As it has always been the case with her, she notes reflexively. Suddenly, she feels a burning need to touch him – hold his palm briefly, or put a hand on his arm, just something that will let her make sure he is still there. Her hand raises a few inches before she is able to regain control of her body and stop the motion, and there is no way in hell he could miss that.

"I thought you might like to visit the _Normandy_ again, before our departure." His voice is even, too even. Time is running short and so, regardless of what he has said earlier at the monument, he takes another figurative step forward. "To say goodbyes."

"I..." Say goodbyes? Just that? But again, she would be a fool to refuse. "I'd like that, sir. Very much."

...

The ground team has just sent the newest package from Earth: some med supplies, seemingly intact, and Shepard is helping Katya with sorting it. Bandages, some painkillers, injections – these she can identify by shape, and Katya does the rest. Mostly, Shepard is needed to occasionally pick a lock with her omni-tool. Doing that feat on audio mode feels strange, but it is still possible, so she eagerly sets to work. Keeping hands busy. Not thinking there is only one day left.

She turns to another container. When the lock is overridden, Katya leans over the contents, and bursts into sudden laughter.

"What? What is it?" Shepard inquiries.

"Check... for yourself..." Katya tries to subdue her merriment a little, at least enough to speak.

Shepard reaches inside, and her hand meets glass. Her fingers skim along and across it, mapping out the shape. It is a bottle.

"Booze?" She asks incredulously. Things like that could happen in a vid, or a book, or... Wait, it could not happen in a vid or a book, because it would be too unbelievable. Right, this has to be real life.

"Yep. I won't let the boys forget this one, ever. Med supplies..." Katya laughs out loud again. "By far, that's one of the most interesting definitions of med supplies I've ever come across. Sadly, there isn't enough for us all to get drunk even once."

There is a noise at the door as someone halts there and peeks inside.

"I thought you were supposed to be working?" It is Astrid.

"We are. Just found a surprise," explains Katya. "Aren't you supposed to be assisting Kaminski on something?"

"Crew reassignments, yes, but not in another hour. Kat, could you take care of Sam for me while I'm gone? It'll be too long to leave him alone."

"Yes, no problem. We should be finished by then anyway."

"Thanks. All right, have to go. See you later." Astrid walks away.

"Commander Sheldorn!" echoes from the corridor as someone calls after Astrid. Hackett. Whatever he is doing there.

"Admiral?" Astrid responds.

"Miss Lawson send a message for you. Lieutenant Morgan is not your boy's father, but family nonetheless. His uncle. He would like to talk to you as soon as possible."

Astrid does not reply immediately. "Sir, may I make a request?"

"Depends."

"Would it..." Astrid hesitates. "Would it be possible for me and the boy to travel to Arcturus onboard the _Normandy_?" This is Astrid, who has always kept to regulations and always put her duty before everything, priding herself on being utterly professional.

Shepard strains her ears, her breath catching as she is waiting for Hackett's answer.

"You'd need to obtain Captain Kaminski's permission, Commander."

"You could overrule his decision anyway, sir. So, sir, how would it be?" Astrid is not going to back down.

"As the _Normandy_'s commanding officer, I grant permission. And as the Fleet Admiral. I would like, however, to hear Captain Kaminski's opinion on it."

"He won't object, sir. But of course I will ask him formally, if need be. The decision is not mine to make. Thank you for forwarding the message, sir."

"You've welcome."

"Oh, sir? A moment? Just... Please, wait."

Astrid rushes back into the room. "Take one bottle off my account," she says, grabbing for one, then marches out hastily. "I know that's not much, sit, and not exactly appropriate either, but I have nothing else to thank you with."

"You don't have to thank me, Commander."

"Go get packing, Ast!" Katya calls after Astrid. She sighs. "There it is," she says to Shepard. "Departures all over again. But that's one happy ending, I guess."

"She's not leaving, yet."

"She will. She's been telling me of Sam, you know, and I've talked to him a few times, while doing babysitting for Astrid. Seems he got on well with his uncle. I guess he'd like to go live with him now. I know I would. And Ast's bound to go with him."

"It's not forever," Shepard remarks.

"No, of course not. That's why you've been holding the same pack of bandages for the last couple of minutes, yes? Because it doesn't seem like forever when your think of your Admiral?"

"He's..." Shepard breaks off. It is hard to say what exactly he is to her right now. But she would raise no protest were he to become, as Katya put it, 'her Admiral'.

"He's what?"

The corner of Shepard's mouth curls up, just a little. "None of your business, Kat."

A silhouette appears at the door, and Katya springs up to a standing position. "Admiral."

"At ease," he mutters. "Take this bottle, Miss Makarova, will you? I appreciate Commander Sheldorn's gratitude, but this is really unnecessary."

"Aye, sir." Katya takes the bottle and puts it back into the box.

"Be careful with those," Hackett remarks, a note of amusement audible in his voice.

"Of course, sir."

Shepard does not get up, she does not speak up, just sits there motionless, fingering the rim of a bandage pack slowly, her eyes closed. She knows Hackett is watching her. All she has once learned of gravitational time dilation becomes unexpectedly clear now: time does slow down. Stretches into damn infinity...

"Steve, there you are!" Wainwright calls as he suddenly appears in the hall, peeking inside.

What is it with people today, everyone walking past the med storeroom? Oh. Probably has something to do with the fact that it is one of two possible ways of getting from Galileo and the docks to the work area.

"Yes, yes, I know, everyone's waiting. Old news."

"Yes, this never changes. Come, let's go. Ah, what's that, ladies, do I spot scotch? Set one bottle aside for us, will you? So long, ladies."

"Goodbye, Miss Makarova. Commander Shepard," Hackett's voice sounds clearer, as if he turned to her. "Until tomorrow."

...

Shepard wakes, then immediately activates her omni-tool to check the time. When the synthetic voice reads the hour for her, she curses out loud, in words an old port mechanic would be proud of. She overslept. This really could not get any more pathetic. She bangs her fist against the bed, hard. He said it would be almost two years until they will be back. Damn much can happen in two years. And this is not something that should be talked over and handled via the comm! Dammit, dammit, three times dammit.

The omi-tool beeps, and suddenly Shepard finds herself holding her breath.

"_Shepard?_"

"Admiral? Sir, I am so sorry, I..."

"_Nothing to be sorry about yet_," he says calmly. "_We're not leaving for another few hours. And my offer still stands_."

"I'll be there momentarily, sir."

"_I will be waiting, Commander_."

Shepard hastily turns the omni-tool off and sets to getting washed and dressed, all the while silently thanking heavens for this. And, dressing-wise, also for one-piece suits, because that allows her to make it a minute or two quicker.

...

Hackett is waiting for her at the dock. Their greeting is official and very brief, and after that he offers her his arm and leads her to the _Normandy_. He attempts to make conversation, and Shepard is not certain whether to bless him, for silence would be unbearable, or curse him, because he talks of nothings and she cannot stand it. They do not have much time. And Shepard knows with sudden clarity she does not want to waste even a second of what they have left.

"Everything's ready, Karin?" asks Hackett, halting as theypass by doctor Chakwas almost immediately right after getting onboard.

"You mean moving the med lab? Yes. But Adams mentioned he needs to check a few things. And Jeff..." Chakwas goes silent.

There is a movement, and Joker's voice: "We're almost ready, sir. Will take another hour. Last chance for you to take another tour, Shepard."

"Thanks, but no tours. I don't want to be a hindrance."

"I'm certain admiral Hackett won't object... Err, I mean, would you, sir?"

"The tour will have to wait. But we've got real coffee," he says to Shepard.

"Where?" she asks immediately, and the reaction makes everyone, including her, laugh.

Hackett takes her hand and tucks it under his arm. "Allow me."

...

"You omitted that part during your first visit," Hackett remarks mildly as they exit the elevator. "And during all your following visits." This is his infuriating way of asking questions: he says things, and then before you know it you are giving the answer.

"Too personal."

"But not so now?"

"It's..." Shepard sighs. "It's complicated."

"Care to elaborate?"

"It was my place, my sanctuary. And now it's your cabin, sir. And... Damn, I'm just making it worse, aren't I?"

"Kind of. But nothing to worry about, yet."

"I don't mind being here, I don't mind you accompanying me on it, sir, it's just... I needed some time to get used to the thought my refuge now belongs to someone else."

"It still has much of you left," Hackett says, then takes her hand and guides it to the right and upwards.

She feels metal beneath her fingers. A shape. One of her ship models.

"They are here?"

"All of them. Also, your old dog-tags. And your picture of Earth."

"You kept them, sir?"

"I liked to think I was just a guest here, back then. Helped in keeping my conscience quiet."

She does not know what to say. She has a few ideas what to do, but none of them is good. Again, Hackett saves them both inconvenience.

"I'll get the coffee."

He helps her sit down on a chair – she is not allowed armchairs because of her spine. He goes towards the elevator, there is a muffled voice Shepard recognizes as Samantha Traynor, and Hackett is back again, cups tinkling against the tray, and there is _that _smell.

Real coffee she used to enjoy back on the _Normandy_, a fine blend, one of the few luxuries she allowed herself, along with just the best quality omni-tools and her collection of model ships.

"I'm afraid we're out of sugar, but there's powdered cream."

Shepard replays the sentence in her mind, but it still does not want to agree with Hackett's voice. Things are starting to get... surrealistic, a bit.

"It's fine. Oh, God, the smell... I must be in heaven."

"Still in this world," he assures. Once more, she catches that note of amusement in his voice.

"Are you laughing at me, sir?"

"Just enjoying fine conversation. Here, your coffee." Hackett puts the cup on the desk before her and guides her hand to it.

As all she can see is greyness, other sensations get through stronger, and she does not even have to concentrate on the texture of his palm against the back of hers. His hand is far less warm than the coffee cup, but somehow his touch burns much more. Shepard raises the cup to her nose and inhales, hoping it is enough to hide whatever expression is on her face now, because she cannot get rid of this blasted impression faint traces of his touch are still lingering on her skin.

Something makes a ringing sound as it is catches the edge of the desk.

"You old dog-tags," Hackett says. Just that. It is a statement, a question, and maybe also something more altogether.

Shepard puts the coffee down and opens her palm. Hackett lays the dog-tags into her hand, his fingers touching her skin for a moment, and she could swear the air between their hands is charged with electricity.

She nods a thank-you, and her thought focus on this man sitting next to her. Her head turns, but all she can see is his silhouette, blurry in the dimmed light of the cabin. She would like to look into his face and meet his eyes when he is asking those no-questions of his, but that is not possible, not yet. But she wants to see him, and that she can.

She lets the dog-tags slip from her palm onto the table. Then she reaches her hand out towards Hackett.

"Can I..." Shepard hesitates. This question is going to be weird. "May I see you?"

He takes her hand to help her get up, then turns the additional lights on. He lets go of her hand and for a moment they are just standing like that, face to face.

Shepard can see his silhouette more clearly now. Once and again she can even spot dots of brighter gray flickering where the light reflects in his eyes.

She reaches up slowly – it takes her hand ages to bridge these few inches – and finally she touches his right cheek. There is a scar there, and she traces it. Hackett holds very still, and he does not move when both her hands begin skimming across his face. She tries to map every detail of his features with her fingertips: the contours of his cheekbones, the arcs of his eyebrows, the shape of his eyelids, the line of his jaw. This is no way to behave around an admiral, this is not something that might have passed between friends either. This is about her and him.

Her fingers skim across his forehead, and when she reaches the brim of his cap he takes it off: a permission. His hands brush her arms and come to rest at her waist lightly, though because of the blasted med-corset she cannot really feel much more than a slightest pressure and a ghost of warmth. As her fingers comb through his hair, Shepard knows a line has just been crossed.

Her fingers slide down his neck, to the collar of his uniform. She touches Hackett's shoulders. Then, cautiously, afraid she might break this moment between them, she reaches up and traces the shape of his mouth. He pulls her closer, just an inch maybe but that is enough of a hint. She kisses him: a lingering touch of her lips to his. His hands cup her face as he kisses her in response; no haste, slow, gentle. A moment of zero gravity.

As they part and Shepard regains some clarity of mind, she thinks she can truly understand the relativity of time now, though it does not work quite like she was taught. Two years. She will not meet him for another two years. There is no time for slow and gentle when they have less than an hour left.

She wants something more, a clear sign that this will not be one step forward and two steps back all over again. A firm proclamation where they stand with it. She cannot see the look on his face, nor in his eyes, so she wants to feel instead, to find out about the warm texture of his skin, to hear the hitch in his breath.

She reaches up to undo the first button of the jacket of his uniform. Hackett pulls her closer. She parts her lips – an invitation – and he complies. Another three or four buttons and her hand slips inside, and when she touches his chest she can feel warmth through the material of his shirt.

The comm beeps. And Hackett, damn him, decides to answer and pulls away from her.

"_Sir, we're ready to take off_," announces Joker.

"Warm the engines up." Hackett orders.

"Dammit," she mutters. There must be some blasted Murphy law about relationships and bloody comm-call interruptions. Another one of those and one day she will probably finally strangle Joker, since keelhauling is technically impossible.

Hackett turns back to her. His hand cups her face and his thumb strokes her cheek.

"We wouldn't want to do any more damage to your spine anyway," he says, trying to make it seem like their own decision, his tone between amused and soothing.

Shepard sighs. "No, we wouldn't..." Maybe, had it come to it, his decision would have been the same. Maybe. Hers would not. Or maybe? She leans into his palm. This... this is something she is not used to. Joking, half-serious displays of affection, yes, but not this, not... Not just pure affection. But she could get used to this. Yes, definitely.

"Duty calls." He withdraws his hand.

"Yes," she agrees quietly. She already misses his touch.

He sets to button up his uniform and she does the same, so with the last button their hands meet briefly. Shepard smoothes out the wrinkles that probably are not even there on the material, prolonging the motion and their moment of intimacy with it. Hackett brushes a strand of errant hair out of her face, fingertips stroking along her brow and temple, remaining there for a second.

"Come, I'll walk you back." He takes her hand, puts something on her palm, closes her fingers around it and holds her hand in both of his. "Don't forget your dog-tags."

...

There is a million things she wants to ask him, but there is no time. There is also one thing she has to know, but there is no way to ask now.

Shepard expects his usual 'Godspeed to you', but Hackett just grasps her hand briefly.

"I hereby accept you resignation, Commander." So he has not forgotten. He would not; not him.

"So... It's done." She forces a feeble smile. It feels like walking on ice; there is ground under her feet, but it does not feel firm. Not yet. And he is back to calling her 'Commander', dammit. Dammit... Why the hell he keeps doing this?

"Yes. It's done. I hope you will not regret it."

"I hope so, too." She holds out her hand. They have said their goodbyes as a soldier and a commanding officer; now she wishes to say him goodbye as Theresa Shepard to Steven Hackett.

He takes her hand again, his hold more gentle than previously, making the contact not shaking but more holding hands. His breath flutters across her cheek as he leans in, as if he did not want his words to be drowned out by the noises of the docking bay.

"Wait for me, Theresa." That is all he says before turning back and getting aboard the _Normandy_.

What he said was not a question she would be forced to answer on the spot. Just a request. He gave her time to think things over and make a decision. So this is it: he takes it that serious. And that is why he complicated things so: he wanted to be certain of her feelings on the matter, not wishing to impose on her if she regarded him merely as a friend, wanting her to discover the answer in her own time. Giving her a clear hint, but not trying to win her by anything that simply being his honest self.

It may take months or a years, but he will be back. He would have never said this to her if he was not absolutely sure what he wanted, so now she is certain he will be back. For her. Corners of Shepard's lips curl up slightly into a smile. She will wait.


	10. Prism

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and reviews. They're always welcome :)

* * *

**...**

**Prism**

**...**

Time is passing slowly, but more quickly than she would have thought. Right the day after the _Normandy_'s departure, doctor Chakwas, assisted by Doc, begins medical examinations, and then they consult the results with Mordin via FTL. Shepard is allowed to stay, but even though she is listening intently, she does not understand much. Them, medics. She wonders idly why everyone cannot speak in physics-derived terms. Would made everything so much easier.

"All right, could you now translate it into some human language?" she asks.

"I'll try," Doc offers. "A few series of intra-osseous injections for your spine, ah, I see they're your favourites. This will be different, doctor Solus' design. If that goes well, bone nanosurgery will be unnecessary. As for the eyes, we'll try laser surgery. One eye, in case something went wrong, then the other."

"And if that fails?" Shepard asks, always practical. She would love to have her own eyes back – as much as they are still her own eyes – but if that is impossible, she wants the sight back at least, to be able to work.

"If that fails, then it's eye-cams. And in that case it'll have to wait 'til the relay is established and we have a connection with Arcturus. Doctor Chakwas has excellent equipment, but not that complicated."

"Plus, having it designed by Mordin wouldn't hurt," adds Chakwas. "But in all probability, laser surgery should work. Well, that's about it."

...

Next week is excruciating, because in between injections in one set she cannot walk, so she is once more confined to bed. Katya spends much time beside her, talking, scaring the boredom away with her endless chatter. Shepard does not even tease her about that. With Astrid gone, Katya is separated from her friend, and it leaves a hole that cannot be filled instantly. So Shepard lets her talk.

When Shepard gets a message, from none other than Hackett, Katya does not ask about him, does not ask about anything, just tactfully leaves, slipping out of the med bay quietly.

"Computer, read the message."

The message is not overly long, but important, or rather its implications are.

— _From: Admiral Hackett_

_Theresa, there's something I would like you to read. Call me when you're done with it._

_Get well soon._

_Hackett _—

"Attachments?"

"_Attachments: 1. Military Dossier: Steven Hackett. Contents: Dossier and History of Service. Audio Archive. Mail Archive._"

There is another message in her mailbox, this one from Liara.

— _From: Liara T'Soni_

_Shepard,_

_Following Admiral Hackett's request, I'm sending you all my Broker files on him. He does not know everything that's there. He asked me to send it all to you regardless._

_Greetings from Tali, Garrus and the rest of the band._

_Get well soon, Shepard._

_Liara_

_PS Tali sends a short message. _—

— _From: Tali'Zorah vas Normandy_

_Shepard,_

_Liara told me about the files. Keeping my fingers crossed – is that how you say it? – keeping my fingers crossed like a good younger sister should. Well, we're not sisters, but still._

_And come to Arcturus, once it'll be possible. We're all missing you._

_Tali _—

Shepard skims through Hackett's message again, then deletes the files. She does not need them; she trusts him on his word, as he trusted her that critical moment after Aratoht, and that is it.

She sends a reply to Liara, thanking her for the files, and to Tali, telling her she is missing them all, and that Garrus better finds a bar where they could all go and get drunk together. Then she sends a short message to Hackett, informing him she would like to talk. She has a vague idea what sending the files was all about, but she would like to hear it from him.

...

Hackett calls back two days later, while she is still abed, and she welcomes it as both the distraction from boredom and, much more, as the chance to hear his voice.

"Theresa. I get it you received my files."

"Yes."

"And?"

"I deleted them."

Hackett sighs quietly. "This was no trick, Theresa. No loyalty check, nothing of the sort. You understand than as an Alliance admiral I have read all your files."

"Of course."

"It's only fair you should read mine."

Shepard stays silent, not really knowing what to say. She does not need it; she trusts him. But, for some reason, he considers this important. She think she can understand.

"I do mean it, Theresa."

She is not quite convinced to the idea yet. Damn, it seems wrong, why cannot he see it?

"This is not about trust."

"Steven?" Damn, it is hard for her. She does not have much experience in talking about things so elusive as feelings. "You say it's not about trust. And I know you trust me..."

"But?" he prompts.

"You... don't talk to me. Not really. You sent me your files, but you don't talk to me about _how_ it was. You comforted me when I needed it, but you don't tell me about your own nightmares. And you know about my past, but I still don't know some essentials about yours. I'm... Dammit, Steven, it's confusing."

There is a prolonged pause before he answers. "I _do _trust you, Theresa. It's just hard for me to talk about it all. I don't really know _how_ to talk about it, I've barely ever had talked about those things before." He sighs. "But I will try to learn, if that's what you want."

Dammit, dammit, dammit, why cannot she just look at him? She would know. Like this, it is just fumbling around in the dark.

"Steven, I don't want you to do it against yourself. It's..."

"You deserve to know. As you said, I know these things about you. And, Theresa... Please, read those files. It really isn't about trust. Just about honesty and being fair."

"I... I think I understand."

"I just wanted it to be completely clear."

This is serious, Shepard realises. He _does_ mean it. When he asked her to wait for him, he did not make her promise anything, and now she knows why: he wants it to be absolutely fair, and for her to think it over. And before she shall give him a yes, he wants her to be one hundred percent certain. It is touching, in a way, to see how much it means to him. It... has never been this way before, never, with no one. Dammit, this is serious with a capital 'S'.

"Okay. I will read the files. But..." she pauses. She cannot let the topic drop, they cannot turn away from it. It is too important, as simple as that. "I hope you'll tell me, in time. Meanwhile, I don't mind. It'll be enough to know there are no skeletons in your locker."

He laughs, even if it sounds a little forced. "No, no skeletons. Maybe just a bone or two."

"I can handle bones, I think."

"I think you've seen worse."

Shepard smiles. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"Good to hear that." He pauses. "We'll talk about it all, one day, you have my word on it."

"That's fine by me. Meanwhile, I'll read those blasted files."

"Good. Call me when you're done with it."

"I will."

"Take care, Theresa."

"I will."

He laughs again at that, just before ending the call.

There is a net of trust they have weaved between them over the years: firm, solid. Shepard rarely tries to name the feelings she has for Hackett – truth to be told, she does not name them at all – it is difficult to find words to describe something that comes as natural as breathing. But when she thinks of him, there is always this feeling of safety, like a strong, warm current she can drown in.

...

In the evening – relative evening, by the terms of hour and habits of the station – Shepard activates the omni-tool, then takes out a pair of headphones. No reason anyone else should hear it.

"Copy all attachments from the most recent mails from Admiral Hackett and Liara T'Soni into two new folders and merge into a single playlist."

"_File names. First..._"

"Just read it. Damn... Skip the names," she corrects the order. "Playing: all files, by numbers. Commence reading."

"_Alliance Military Dossier: Steven Hackett, Fleet Admiral._

— _Name: Hackett, Steven_

_Date of birth: 2134_

_Place of birth: Buenos Aires_

—

_Education:_

_2146 – 2152: Advanced Training Academy for Juveniles._

_Training notes: aptitude for science and leadership._

_2152 – 2155: Massachusetts Military Academy of Technology_

_ Faculties: Starship engines mechanics, design and construction; Navigation._

_ A course in mass effect physics._

_2153 – 2156: Officer Candidate School_

_ Fields of study: diplomacy, military logistics, strategy, tactics._

_Languages: English, Spanish, Russian._

—

_History of service_

_2152: Enlisted._

_2156: ..."_

Dates and descriptions continue, but that is really nothing new to her. She knows his history of service. What she really wants to know is hiding between the lines: why he enlisted, did he ever regret it. She wants to know about his first battle, and next ones, about doubts and mistakes, about all the moments he looked death in the eye and discovered it scared the hell out of him, and others when he looked death in the eye and laughed. About lost friends, wounds and nightmares. Everything. Everything that shaped him into the man he is now.

"_Awards_

_2157: Silver War Cross [Star of Terra nomination cancelled after Shanxi]_

_2158: Palladium Star_"

"Skip that," Shepard orders impatiently. "No, wait." Shanxi? This made no sense. Nomination cancelled? "Continue." Maybe there will be more in one of the other files.

"_Medical records_

_2152: refractive eye surgery [hyperopia]_"

"Damn, skip that." Medical records? Really? As if anything in thisfield could make an impression on her. Yes, she wants to learn of his battle scars, but not like this, no. Touch, skin on skin, quiet questions and equally quiet answers. That is the way to go, not bloody medical records! Then, again, they are a standard in any dossier.

Shepard sighs. "Proceed to next file."

"_File: SSV _Matterhorn _black box recording._

— '_Hackett, get them out of here, and that's a bloody order! You _have_ to warn Earth! You have to...'_

'_Lieutenant?'_

'_You've heard the Captain. Get me on the intercom. This is Lieutenant Hackett. We're getting the hell out of here, now!'_

'_But... The Captain...'_

'_The Captain is dead, Harding, and if we don't warn Earth he died for nothing, dammit, they're dying out there for nothing. Evasive manoeuvres! Get us to the relay, and that's a bloody order!' _—

"_File: Mail from Fleet Admiral Sofia Archer to Rear Admiral John Grissom._

— _Grissom,_

_Not a chance. Hackett might well be considered a hero, but I'll not have him getting the Star of Terra after that public comment of how he's not certain he can condemn Williams for his actions. How old the brat is to voice bloody morals? What example does it set for our soldiers?_

_But I agree, we have to decorate him, something that'll keep the crowds silent. Give the boy a Silver War Cross and everyone will be perfectly happy with that. See to that, will you?_

_Archer_ —

"_File: Voice recording from Combat Information Centre, _Normandy _SR-2. Date: 14__th__ February 2185._

— '_Commander, incoming message from Arcturus. I thought, like, we're not with the Alliance anymore? Apparently, gotten it wrong, since it's your friend Admiral Hackett again. Next time we're doing an assignment for him, maybe we should go get his groceries too while we're at it?'_

'_Give it a rest, Joker. Kelly, could you leave, please? Yeoman Chambers. Now. That's a bloody order. Patch him through, Joker.'_

'_Commande-... Shepard.'_

'_Admiral.'_

'_You're actions are... curious, Shepard.'_

'_Are you referring to those Cerberus files, sir?'_

'_Yes.'_

'_And that's it, sir... Admiral? You called just to tell me that?'_

'_Shepard. Don't be ridiculous. I called to tell you we could use a soldier like you. Should you ever want to return to the Alliance, there'll be a post waiting for you.'_

'_It wasn't _me_ who left the _Alliance_, sir.'_

'_... No. It wasn't. That...That will be all, Shepard. Hackett out.' _—

She remembers the conversation quite vividly. They way he admitted that indeed, she had not been the one leaving anyone, that it had been the Alliance leaving her. The sudden, faintest trace of guilt in his voice. And how he did not deny that and just agreed with her. Taking responsibility, that was it. What she was always doing, what he was always doing.

A thought strikes her. "Computer. Sort by date. Give me the most recent file."

"_File: Personal log entry._

" — _Begin recordi- ... - ... - ... Damn, is this thing working already?_

"_December 31st, 2186 CE. A New Year celebration is going on... As much as there can be a celebration under the circumstances. We are hopeful. We won, we will rebuild, and someday even rise again, I can see that._

"_I'm exhausted. Can't admit it, but I am. It's... Damn, I suppose talking to my omni-tool is one of the most idiotic things I've ever done in my entire life._

"_They are lost. I don't want to realise it, but I have to. Whoever has been left in the Sol is probably dead by now. Lost... Damn, that's nonsense. Computer, stop recording. Delete the file. _— "

There is something more to Hackett's words in that last part. The exhaustion he mentioned certainly is there, but there is more. The way he said 'lost' sounds... personal. Not any 'lost'. 'Lost' like in: he lost someone.

Shepard wonders briefly if he might have meant her.

...

It is something of a supernatural ability, Shepard muses, that whatever is happening and wherever it takes place, there is always a bottle of alcohol to be found for doctor Chakwas. This one is the same bottle Wainwright chose for a farewell drink with Hackett, but they left it intact. Wainwright mentioned something about the evening being too short for all the memories.

So now she is sitting – a welcome change, after a whole week in bed – sitting in Chakwas' room on a lower level of Galileo, drinking and chatting, as they used to do on the _Normandy_.

Shepard takes another sip of the scotch, the alcohol burning her throat, but a moment later it dissolves into pleasant warmth in her stomach. She hates the taste, but drinking with Chakwas has become something of a tradition. Besides, things told over the rim of a glass... it makes the talking easier for her. Sitting like this, sipping the booze slowly, means everything is safe for the moment, for she has time to relax.

"He send me his files," she says finally, after a prolonged pause. "Hackett," she specifies. Maybe doctor Chakwas will tell her some more. More that she found in the files.

Chakwas does not reply immediately, her hand moving as she is swirling her drink. "He's always been like that. When he's serious, it's _very _serious."

"You know him, don't you, doctor?"

"Had to patch him up on my first serious assignment. His first, also, and Wainwright's. That's when he got that scar on the cheek. It could've healed to be less visible, but we were short on supplies, and he insisted to take care of his squad first. He's always been stubborn."

"And then? The First Contact War?"

"Ah. Ugly, ugly business. He's been in the first fight, you know. The only ship which made it from Relay 314. He was given command of the ship, after the Captain was killed, and then commanded it into the retaliation battle. Didn't have much experience back then, had to rely on instincts. Made mistakes. Got his first patches of gray hair out of that." Chakwas drinks the rest of her scotch, then refills both glasses. "He can be... difficult, at times."

"You're friends? If you don't mind me asking."

Chakwas sighs. "Hard to say. We've never been that close friends. It's not like we wrote mails or called after he got promoted and I got reassigned."

"Oh."

"But I earned the right to call him by his name back then. He's not that insistent on regs when it doesn't get in the way of things."

"And that's it?"

"I'm sorry, Shepard." Chakwas sets her glass on the table. "But his frontline nightmares are his own, as are yours. It's up to him to share them. I respect that; you should, too."

"No need to chastise me, doctor."

"I'm not. Just reminding." Chakwas pauses.

"Has he..." Shepard hesitates. It is not right to ask, and it does not matter... Damn, it does. It is the past that made them who they are now. Besides, she is simply curious.

"Shepard, you're not serious, are you? Of course he's had relationships. But it's not my job to talk about it." Chakwas rebukes gently. "But no dead girlfriends, deceased wives or any other traumas, if that's what you're asking, and I'll pretend it was."

"Kind of."

"Does it matter?"

Shepard does not answer. Of course it does. But again, he never asked her about that either. Trust, again. Sometime, she will tell him on her own accord. Sometime, he will tell her. If there was something she should know, he would never try to hide it.

On a less logical level, only one thing seems important to her right now. That the Theresa Shepard she is now, and the Steven Hackett he is now, fit together right this very moment of time.

...

There is another file, one that arrives later than the others. Strangely, it has Liara's comment attached to it.

— _Shepard, the file is coded. My computer recognised the specification as your comm device. If you can get past recoding it, you should know it is password-protected... But you probably don't need advice on this. This is from Hackett's voice mail, and, unlike the log entry backup which was not deleted due to a temporary program malfunction, this has been recorded, saved and then broadcasted._

_Hackett doesn't know I have this file, but again, if this was deliberately broadcasted and is addressed to you, I think at some point he wanted you to hear it._

_Can't contact you often, we have loads of messages to pass, and even my Broker devices have difficulties handling that much. Hackett claimed all the most effective channels, damn him; guess this goes with being the Fleet commander. I have to try it someday._

_So long, Shepard._

_Liara. _—

Shepard hesitates. This is addressed to her, encoded, probably some wartime data that proved unnecessary. No harm could come out of it. Just what, it can bring up a memory or two, and maybe a following nightmare.

"Computer, read the file."

"_Voice match: confirmed_," announces the synthetic voice of her omni-tool audio mode. As it is her original omni-tool, it is enough to choose the configuration of the comm, and she can skip classic encoding altogether."_Password required._"

"Password: 2-1-5-4-3-4-Thermopylae." This is the code name she used for a data exchange channel established with Hackett. He was surprised she should choose such a name, and he remarked that history rather does not suit her, to which she replied this particular story was a memory from the past. She can still remember herself, maybe ten years old, sitting on the floor, listening to her grandfather as he is telling the story.

Back when they were establishing the password, she did not truly believe they could make it, that they could actually win the war. She hoped, but not believed. Not until that talk with Hackett just before the final battle.

"_Password correct. File type: voice mail. From: Admiral Steven Hackett. File reading: commencing,_" announces the synthetic voice. There is a minor interference, and the recording continues, in Hackett's own voice.

"— _This is nonsense, but I have to let go to be able to function, and this is the only way._

_Shepard, I know you will never receive this message... Because you are dead. Killed on the Citadel, by my orders, by me sending you there. You'd have gone regardless, but that doesn't matter._

"_Wherever you are now, know I am sorry. I would have made the same decision and given the same orders if I had to do it again, but know that I regret it. I regret it so much I am recording a voice mail to you, to a ghost, in hope it'll allow me to sleep at night, because I can't go on like this any longer, I have to get past it. _

"_As this is coded for your comm specifically, and your comm is probably lost, and even if it wasn't, you're most probably dead, no one will eavesdrop on it when broadcasted. In all probability, no one will receive it... But it will be out there. It is not possible this message will ever find you, but I cannot abandon the hope that somehow, it will. If you only knew... It would have changed nothing, if you knew. But I wish I've told you regardless._

"_If you think I'm drunk, I'm not. Not yet, there isn't enough alcohol left on the damn ship. But yes, I am drinking. If anything, it makes your features visible more clearly._

"_I sent the woman I... I sent _you_ to your death. Your face still haunts me, every waking hour. I _have_ to make it disappear._

"_Farewell, Shepard... _Theresa_. _— _"_

Shepard sits, transfixed, listening to the tremble in his voice. It is obvious he had been drinking, for otherwise he would have never said any of it. But hearing his voice, so deceitfully normal on the surface and so broken inside, touches something deep within her. The first weeks after the Citadel were difficult for her, but she cannot quite imagine what it must have been for him.

She blinks, and to her surprise feel her eyes and cheeks are damp. She reaches into the pocket of her suit and takes out a handkerchief, then wipes the tears away. As she puts the material back into its place in her pocket, she feels the familiar texture of stitched letters under her fingertips.

She wait a few minutes, until she is composed again, and calls him, because this cannot wait. Whatever she tells him now will not undo what he had to go through, but it is the right thing to do.

"Yes?" he answers her call curtly, obviously being busy with something else.

"Steve, I just wanted to..." she breaks off, and a moment of silence follows as they both note her use of a diminutive of his first name. Informal. Intimate.

"Theresa," he says quietly, and her own longing echoes in his voice.

"I got your message. From after the Citadel." She pauses. "Steve," she repeats his name, and it is a call, a caress, a confession of feelings. "Why didn't you tell me? Back then, why didn't you tell me?"

"We had to focus on other things," he explains, though without much conviction. "I should have told you, regardless."

"It's... I..." She is at a loss for words.

"It's all right now, Theresa."

"You have to tell it to yourself quite often, don't you?" she remarks softly.

"Yes," he answers, his candour no longer coming as a surprise to her. "Yes, sometimes I have to."

"It _is_ all right," she says firmly, decisively. All that matters is they made it through the war, found each other, have a chance. "It's all right. Let go of the what-ifs."

"If you insist."

"Yes. I do." She pauses. "I guess that's all for now. Haven't really thought what I'd like to talk about, except that. But I had to call."

"I'm glad you did. I'll be calling you regularly, but it can't be as frequent as I'd like to. Once a fortnight, once a week at most."

"It's okay." She smiles a bit. "I'd just like an occasional sign you're thinking of me."

He sighs, so quietly it is barely audible, but she catches the sound nonetheless.

"I am always thinking of you," he says, before disconnecting.

It is late, but she is too moved to get to sleep, so she skims through the files again, reading, but there is almost nothing substantial there, nothing she either does not already know of or does care about. Almost nothing, but one: not a single word disappoints her. He has worked hard for his rank, and damn, earned every stitch of his admiral epaulettes. But she does not want to read about his history of service. The First Contact War with Relay 314 Incident and Shanxi; exploration missions – she wants him to talk to her about it. And Arcturus, and the Reaper War. Everything. He will, in time, just as she will tell him of Akuze and Alchera: not how it went, but how it _felt_.

For now, she has her own dossier of his. A memory patchwork of their encounters, dating back as far as Akuze, when she first met him in person and slightly off the official record.

.

.

.

Shepard is standing in the crowd of officials and soldiers, everyone around chatting while waiting to come over to offer condolences or congratulate her on her promotion to commander, some to do both. She wishes she could become invisible, or just get out of here this very moment. It is too much. If feels as if her squad has just been buried, the whole dreadful mission was just yesterday, and, damn it, why they make her attend this bloody decoration ceremony while she does not want any of this! The promotion will not bring her squad back, nothing will, and she does not want the bloody medal.

Shepard grits her teeth. She will make it through. And later in the evening she will find either a bottle of some alcohol or sleeping pills, because otherwise sleep will not come; only nightmares will.

Another Alliance official approaches her, and Shepard forces herself to keep her face neutral. His features seem familiar, but she cannot put a name to them... ah. Rear Admiral Hackett.

"Sir." She raises her hand to salute.

He stops her effort with a gesture. "At ease." He reaches out, offering his hand in congratulations. "Commander." This is all he says. No condolences, no congratulations, just a single word, the name of her new rank, which somehow conveys it _all_. It does not require her to put on a brave face or smile. He does not smile at her either, just steadily meets her eyes as they shake hands, very briefly: his palm holds hers firmly for a moment and that is it.

Shepard nods slowly. She is not the only who lived through a similar horror; she will make it, because she has to, just as others did. But it took that single word Hackett said to make her realise it, and for that, she is grateful.

...

The evening crawls on, so slowly time seems frozen, but at least she is able to hide somewhere in a corner with a glass of whiskey. The alcohol tastes foul, but it is fitting and, after all, is the good medicine not supposed to be bitter? She looks out through the window, but the stars outside do not bring the comfort they used to.

There is a sound of footsteps coming to a halt as someone stands next to her, but she does not turn. She will not leave before the end of the celebration if she has to stay, but she wants to be left alone.

"Commander," says a deep voice beside her, softly. Hackett.

Shepard turns. "Sir."

He salutes her with his glass. She nods is acknowledgement, but remains silent.

"It will fade in time, Commander." He keeps his voice quiet. "It will never disappear completely, but it will fade."

"Thank you, sir."

"I'd leave, if I were you. No one will notice anyway."

"I will stay."

"I could make up an excuse if you need one, Commander."

"I will stay," she repeats. "Thank you, sir," she adds, in an afterthought, though this time the thanks are just an empty phrase.

Hackett raises his glass again. "For the lost?" This is a question only halfway.

Shepard swallows the lump in her throat. Her answer is a hoarse, barely audible whisper. "Yes."

They do not talk much, just finish their drinks together. Shepard does not feels better, not quite, but a tad more peacefully.

"Sir?" She asks, all of a sudden. "Why bother?" Indeed, why should he?

"I've heard once that this is what tells a good leader from a bad one. People don't follow if they know you don't care."

This is the first time Shepard thinks that, just like Captain Anderson, Hackett is the right man in the right place. Also, what he says of leaders is true. From this evening on, she knows _she_ will follow.


	11. Holography

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and especially for the reviews. They're always welcome :)

* * *

**...**

**Holography**

**...**

"Careful there, Shepard," doctor Chakwas warns. "If there is any pain, let me know immediately."

Shepard feels the doctor cautiously removing the medi-gel dressing from her eyes.

"Okay. Try to open your eyes. Slowly, no rushing."

As slowly as possible, Shepard opens her eyes. There is a momentary pain, and she winces. She sees a blur of light, and a dark silhouette. Hoping the discomfort would ebb away, she blinks a few times, but as this does not help she tries to focus her eyes onto something.

It takes a few more blinks, and she sees doctor Chakwas' face leaning over her, slightly blurry, but she can distinguish the expression of worry. Just to be sure, she raises her hand to her eyes, watching her fingers flexing and straightening in lazy moves.

"And?" asks Chakwas anxiously. It is a test for her medical skills, hers and for Doc's. But her voice is more than just a doctor's concern about the patient; it is concern for a friend.

Doc must be worried, too, in a similar way, even if he is not there, having tactfully excused himself, not wishing to pry into Shepard's another moment of weakness. Shepard appreciates that.

"I'm... fine, I guess. Eyes hurt, a bit. And everything's a bit blurry."

"Can't give you painkillers, Shepard, sorry. We have to determine if this is just a reaction to the surgery, or if something went wrong, though the latter doesn't seem very probable."

Shepard's brow furrows. "Something off with the focus."

"It should pass in a few hours. Try to rest, we'll check on this in the evening. I'll go tell doctor Roche." Chakwas moves away from the bed, clearing the nearby locker of bandages and medi-gel waste.

Shepard looks around, seeing the room for real for the first time. Getting the colour vision back will require Mordin to fix things up, but at least she can see details again, and the world is no longer a haze of blurry spots, but an old black-and-white film: in monochrome, but details are clearly visible... well, will be, once her eyes will get used to seeing again. She will be able to see faces of her friends and colleagues, to look at the station she has helped to design, to watch the stars again. But first of all, she wants to see Hackett.

"Doctor?" she calls, and Chakwas stops mid-step and turns backs towards her.

"Yes, Shepard?"

"I need to get to the comm."

"Out of the question. Not until tomorrow, at least."

Shepard ponders over this for a while, but she cannot wait, and using mail is out of the question. For a second she considers asking Chakwas to do this for her, but she lets the idea drop almost instantly. The expression on Hackett's face that will be the reaction for the news, and whatever look will be there in his eyes – that belongs to her, and only her.

...

She is told the conversation has to be brief, as the Admiral is waiting for the Council meeting to commence. Truth to be told, she does not really know what should she talk about with him right now. She just wants to see his face, dammit, to finally meet his eyes now she is again able to do so, to check if she remembers him correctly.

As the QEC flickers to life and Hackett appears, Shepard cannot suppress a sudden surge of amusement. He is in his uniform and full admiral regalia, and this immortal cap of his, and he has not changed a slightest bit. Suns will burn out and he will still be wearing the same cap and the usual expression.

"Theresa." Hackett nods at her. "How are you?" He looks at her, anxiety flickering over his face, and then there is bafflement as he notices she is _staring_ _back_ at him.

"I'm fine. I just wanted to see you," she says quietly, smiling. Her words carry a whole load of meaning: she wanted to _see_ him, and she _can_ do so now. Finally.

Hackett cannot tears his eyes away from hers, and for what seems to be the first time ever words fail him. As the full impact of her words sinks in, he smiles: the smile is small, but his eyes are lit up with tremendous relief and... something more, something deeper, so much, much deeper... Has he been looking at her like that all the time? Has he... Shepard takes a deep, slow, steadying breath. God, _this_ look in his eyes...

She wants to reach out and to see the expression on his face change under the touch of her hand, she wants to... There is too much she wants to, needs to do, and all she can do is just look at him. But – except for the fact that it is suddenly so damn difficult with all the light-years between them, for everything seems much more real when she can see him – except for that, it is enough.

No more words are said. She needs no words when she can read everything written so clearly in his eyes.

...

Shepard looks at her face in the mirror. She touches her cheek hesitantly, traces the scar that used to be there and is back there again, after Earth, how right that it is after Earth, but still, it is not the same scar. Slightly more narrow, a bit longer. But most of all, it feels different.

Her fingers comb through a strand of hair, longer now than she usually kept it, getting into her eyes with a slightest move. Her hand brushes along her arm. Then, finally, she comes closer to the mirror and looks into her eyes. It takes a great effort not to step back. Chakwas said it looks better, Doc tactfully remained silent, but now that she can see how her eyes look like, it puts her off. These are not her eyes any longer. Then again, after Cerberus even her skin was not her own. Shepard is not certain it is now.

There are moments it feels different, not like she is quite herself again, but when she forgets it, or it becomes unimportant, because she is more than her body. Moments, not that often, but intense when they come. With Hackett. How could she be so blind earlier, how could she overlook it. How the hell does he do it that it always feels right with him, that she always feels like everything is all right, even when it is not, not yet.

Shepard activates the omni-tool and quickly types the message.

— _Steven... What am I to you? T. _—

Her hand freezes over the holo-buttons. Dammit, how foolish she is... This is not a question to be asked by bloody mail! Besides, it seems idiotically sentimental. She is not sentimental, never has been. Occasionally, there are things able to move her, sometimes to even choke her with emotion, but this... She puts her hand to her forehead. _I miss him_, she realises.

Her finger moves in a blur to click the 'delete' button. Not like that. This... it dawns on her this should be done properly. She _wants_ to do it properly.

She sighs, then tucks herself in bed, but she cannot sleep. After a few minutes of restless tossing and turning, she shoves the blanket aside, reaches for her omni-tool and leans against the wall. Sleep problems are a side effect of some medicine supposed to help to stabilise her sight, and they will pass. For now, she can waste time looking through vast archives of her omni-tool.

Between the files, there are a few photos, and one catches her attention immediately. It is him, younger, younger than she is now, in his dress blues. The decorations in the background and the medal shining on his chest indicate what the occasion was, but he is not smiling. He seems lost deep in thoughts, looking somewhere far with unseeing eyes. Not romantic daydreaming, more like reminiscing, and very probably it a memory of something he regrets. She takes a closer look at the medal. Silver War Cross. So it was after First Contact War. Shepard traces those first streaks of grey on his temple, tenderly, wondering who he was back then, wondering if and how that Steven Hackett was different from the one she knows.

She is missing him, the reaction almost visceral, but to her own astonishment there is much more to it than just yearning for physical closeness. That, too, of course, but... Oh, she has respected him from Akuze on, she has grown to like him well enough as a friend, kind of, during the war, and she is obviously attracted to him on more than a few levels... and somehow, when she adds it all, the result of the equation is more than the sum of the elements would indicate. If something like this happened in calculations for one of her engineering projects, she would have counted everything over and over, searching for an error. When this happens in life, she knows it is no mistake. She is afraid to name it just yet, afraid it might break the spell. Afraid putting it into words would lessen what she is beginning to feel for him, what she might have been feeling for some time already, just never noticed until now.

_Stop it, Shepard_, she thinks. _Just stop it_. That is it: find something to do, do not think. _I'll think about it tomorrow_. But she cannot that simply banish him from her mind, not when that message he sent to her after the Citadel still echoes so clearly in her dreams. It is not guilt, even if it sometimes feel like that, for it was not her fault; just this something that pulls at her heartstrings. Shepard shakes her head. Enough sentimentality for today.

She tosses the omni-tool aside and slowly gets out of bed, to look into the mirror once again, scanning the outlines of her body inch by inch in almost scientific curiosity. Getting her sight partially back re-opened some old wounds, and that in turn makes her think, hard. Who is she now, having handed her resignation? Who is she now, no longer a soldier, with the label that has defined her for years now gone?

It is similar to what she felt after Cerberus revived her. First moments after the waking were shock and a heady rush of adrenaline, with no time for thought, and she did what she did best: she fought for life. Then there was the bittersweet feeling at seeing the _Normandy_ reborn, as she herself was reborn, and she remembers vividly how the sight pulled at some strings in her heart she had never anticipated being there.

Then, during long hours of the night, questions came, in an avalanche, leaving her grasping at the pillow tightly and her cheeks stained with tears when she understood she did not, could not find the answer. Who am I? Am I _me_? What had been happening with my soul for those two years? Do I _have _a soul? _What_ am I? When she fell asleep, exhausted, the questions were gone, washed away with tears, leaving an empty shell. Afterwards, she did not think, she just acted. Action, reaction, no thoughts, no feelings, only that echoing emptiness she felt when lying awake in the dark.

And then, there was Alchera. Hackett has probably never figured out the impact of that single message, the meaning Alchera held for her. It was no sudden awakening to her old self, it was no revelation, it was no resurrection of her soul into the new body. She was still as much lost as before, as much uncertain. But after Alchera, she had something to start from. _This is me_, she thought, watching the remains of the first _Normandy_, the ship sleeping peacefully her eternal sleep among the snows of Alchera, with auroras her vigil lights. _This is me_, she thought, weighting the dog-tags of her lost crewmen in her hands. _This is me_, she thought, touching the metal skeleton of the dead vessel, frozen ashes staining her gloves. That was her, that was what she had fought for, what she had died for. That was what she could live again for.

She reaches for her omni-tool once more, to look for a vid, one she recalls from one of the last status reports on successful operations he broadcasted for the sake of the Alliance and everyone's morale. '_Soldiers of the Milky Way..._' Shepard smiles at his peculiar wording. She remembers how each time that phrase gave her the feeling she was part of something more, something bigger than she could ever be, something greater than all of them. Giving them sense of purpose. '_Wait for me, Theresa._' As he has given it to her specifically just before his departure. He was one of the reasons she fought and was ready to die for, part of her past, part of her. He is what she can and will live for. Like Alchera used to be, but different, he is her anchor.

...

"Time for your walk." Katya smiles at her from the doorway, peeking inside Shepard's room. "Just thought you'd like a reminder."

"Thanks, Kat."

The nurse smiles again – Shepard could swear the smile is contagious, as Katya's cheerfulness has been even before Shepard regained her sight.

It still feels strange to her, being able to see the Gagarin inhabitants as more than faceless silhouettes. Well, Katya at least looks as Shepard would have imagined her by her voice: childish, big-eyed face, and short fair hair. And she has freckles.

Well, about the others... She imagined them different, by their voices and personalities, though she is now beginning to be able to see something of the latter in their faces. Speaking of appearance, Doc was a surprise for her. Shepard remembers him, tall, lean to the point of being thin, and eyes too serious in the face of an eighteen-years-old boy. His face grew up to fit the eyes since, but where once he had quiet strength, hidden behind a kind, friendly face, now his features are more taut, sharper, and there are wrinkles between his eyebrows from too much frowning.

"Are you coming?" Katya asks. "You know, you're growing awfully pensive these days."

"Past catching up with me," Shepard mutters dismissively. She knows Katya is trustworthy and has almost earned it by now, but there is too much to be told, and Shepard would rather not talk about it. There would be too much explaining, and that is something she definitely does not feel up to right now. Not before she has completely figured it out herself.

Katya glances at her, a stare much older than her almost childish face. "Fine, no questions." The nurse sighs. "I won't even pretend I could understand that. Maybe on the logical level... No, wait, I've never been good with that. Emotional hamster on caffeine."

"Without the caffeine maybe." Shepard smiles. "So, let's go see if Chief has any news from the Fleet, shall we? Hamster," she adds.

"Hey, you're not allowed to call me that!" Katya protests, then laughs. She seems to be an endless source of laughter whenever they need it... and Shepard sometimes thinks she is jealous of Katya's gift to find a shard of happiness where she only can, in little, everyday things Shepard takes no notice of, because she is not made that way.

"Oh, come on."

"I'm still on duty. Have to go back to the med lab, or Doc is going to..." Katya's pager beeps. "Ah, talk of the devil. See you at dinner." With a friendly wave of hand, the nurse is gone.

...

Shepard finds Wainwright in usual working place, and his office – which is not really an office but just the station's planning and engineering studio, affectionately nicknamed Leonardo by the chief engineer himself. He is leaning over one of the consoles, his eyes glued to the holoscreen, watching steadily moving lines of figures.

Truth to be told, she still cannot get used to the sight Wainwright among the holo-screens and high tech equipment. He looks totally out of place here, with his nineteenth-century appearance, reminding Shepard of the faces from those old illustrated novels her grandfather used to read to her.

"Any news on the relay rebuilding progress, Chief?"

"Ah, Shepard." Wainwright turns, a warm look in his eyes. Despite being very stern and accurate when it comes to work, he is the good spirit of the station. A scientific optimist, which, with a healthy dose of realism he possesses, makes the best possible combination. "I've heard they had a major breakthrough in Arcturus, but Hackett was very vague about it." A corner of his lips goes up in a crooked smile. "His knowledge got rusty over the years of playing the admiral."

"So, nothing specific?"

"You'd have to ask Vaeto. He was to receive some plans earlier today."

"And why not you, chief?"

"Time. Much explaining to anyone who'd be managing the project."

"I don't think I follow. What has time to do with that?"

"You've obviously never heard salarians talking in their native tongue."

…

Doctor Vaeto is at the comm in his lab, talking with none other but Mordin. She recognizes the voice, though has no idea what both scientists are discussing: they are talking in salarian, too fast for anyone to follow, sounds resembling more crickets' chirping than an actual language.

"Excuse me, doctor Vaeto, could you spare me a minute?"

"Shepard!" Mordin cuts in before Vaeto even turns to register her entrance. "Delighted to hear you. Have great news. Finished relay restorations plans."

"Done it himself," grumbles Vaeto, thought not without pride.

"Have send plans. Won't take as long as expected. Approximately a year."

"A year?" she echoes. Just a year. "Mordin, you're a treasure."

"A frigging genius," corrects Vaeto. "Is that how you humans put it?"

"Could be said so." Shepard answers, biting back a laugh. A year. So many months of waiting less; it is nothing short of a blessing.

"Testing to be done after, of course. Cargo, live stock... Well, volunteers, I suppose. Have to set to work immediately."

"I can help," she offers. "Your treatment worked, Mordin," she says, by the way of thanking him.

"Glad to hear that, but haven't worried. Was certain it will work. My treatment always does."

...

If not to count nightmares, she does not dream often. And if she does, it is usually of dim pictures of the past, like old photographs: little movement, but the emotions are tangible in the air. Sometimes it is just a picture, and at times she even cannot recognise it. And sometimes it is just an average mishmash of life and loose thoughts and random things, and in the morning she does not even remember she dreamt anything.

And, sometimes, she also dreams of Hackett. Scenes she remembers from the past – further past, before Gagarin – either altered slightly or just simple, unaltered memories. Very rarely, the dreams grow more intimate, but her sense of sight is always off in those. Even if that feels weird, it is quite logical: she has no memories of them together others than from the period her sight was impaired, and the Hackett she knows now she has learnt by other senses than sight. The image he once was to her, an icon, distinct and consistent, has been replaced by pieces, a whole kaleidoscope of single impressions. Somehow, this perception allowed her to see more of him, clearer, more in-depth: white light, split into its constituent spectral colours, her barely seeing eyes a prism that allowed to perceive what is invisible for others.

Sometimes she wonders how it would be had she survived the Citadel unscathed. Would she ever turn to Hackett, or would she back away, because he was her commanding officer at the time, and she was not exactly insistent on breaching regs? Or would she seek him out as a friend? She knows well that wondering about what-ifs is pointless, but there are nights, like this, when she wakes up from a dream weaved of soft darkness and Hackett's – Steven's – voice, and, not able to fall asleep again, she lets her mind wander.

Shepard balls her fingers into a fist, clutching at the sheets. The dream brought up vivid memories of their last meeting, and out of a sudden her bed seems too cold. She tries to fall asleep again, but every time she closes her eyes, he it there. His voice, calling her by name. His face, mapped out by her fingertips. The rhythm of his footsteps. When she is at the verge of sleep like now, she can even dimly recall the warmth of his body against hers.

Sleep still does not want to come, so she flicks her omni-tool to life and begins looking through the archives, searching for nothing in particular. She revels in being able to see again, and she is just idly sifting through the data, narrowing the file search to images and videos. Fleet recruitment posters, Hannah Shepard's face among them, radiating confidence – everything she herself wanted to be once. Her own features, on numerous posters, showing off confidence she used to feel and then did not feel at all, but had to pretend for the sake of the war. There is even, among older materials, one poster with Hackett: younger than she is now, his temples already touched with grey, from the times he was a First Contact War hero.

There are various military press photos, a collection from the victory celebration after the Battle of the Citadel. Among them there is a picture of her and Hackett – the only one where they are together; a new medal glimmering on her uniform, Hackett shaking her hand in congratulations. They are looking at each other, and though – thankfully – it does not quite show on the photo, she remembers the unspoken, clearly understandable words between them.

That, of course, was long before Aratoht, and she was just beginning to learn the extent of Hackett's trust in her. While it did not surprise her when she was a praised hero after the Battle of Citadel, it came as something of a shock when she was working under Cerberus' banner. She has since learnt Hackett is blessed with that special kind of insight, one that he surprised her with so much with after Akuze, insight and precise judgement. Looking back, she can now recognise it in the way he accepted her decision considering a promotion. Shepard smiles to herself, remembering how he kept even that small promise he made to her then. Insignificant, something he did not have to be bothered with – and all the more valuable when he kept to his word despite that.

.

.

.

"Commander," greets Hackett, as soon as the door opens to reveal it is her. "Come in." He gestures for her to come closer and sit. "At ease, at ease," he waves her salute off before she even begins it. "You wanted to speak with me."

"Yes, sir. About my promotion."

"Are you certain you wish to decline?" He sends her a questioning look.

"Yes, sir."

He puts the datapad aside. "One question, Commander. Why?"

Her fingers brush lightly along the verge of the armchair. "I have enough power of command as it is, and don't need all the logistics and bureaucracy that comes with a promotion. I don't want be to bound by a higher rank, sir."

Hackett nods slowly. "Very well. Commander," he adds, not quite smiling, but the set of his lips softens. "No promotion, then. Truth to be told... I am glad. You're right where we need you to be." This time, his whole face softens a little, the usual down-to-business attitude ebbing away slightly. "I'd like to honour your achievements in some way, Commander, but now you have refused a promotion I don't really know how.  
You're going to get a Star of Terra anyway."

Shepard bites back an exasperated groan. God, not decoration ceremonies again! "Yes, sir."

"You don't seem too happy about that, Commander," he remarks.

"I hate ceremonies, I hate smiling to the camera... Oh. Sorry, sir."

"Commander, relax. I don't bite. Speak freely." He pauses. "I know you hate ceremonies, but you'll have to get through it. You can do it, if I remember correctly."

"Will you be there, sir?"

"I'll be the one giving you the medal," he says.

She thinks, quickly. Star of Terra is usually given by the Fleet Admiral, which would mean... Part of her was expecting this, after Fleet Admiral Archer's retirement, hoping for it even. Hackett is a damn competent man, and she is certain he will do one hell of a job.

Shepard smiles. "Congratulations, sir."

"Hush, Commander, it's not official yet. Back to my earlier question: is there any way I could honour what you've done over the last few months?"

"Thank you, sir, but no... Unless... No, no." She is thinking of that moment after Akuze, when he walked over to her to drink for the fallen, and how both talking and silence came easy with him.

"Unless?" he prompts.

"A drink during the less official part of the ceremony? And a five-minutes break from all the congratulations and stuff?"

For a moment he looks baffled, then smiles. "As many minutes as you will need, Commander."

...

Shepard moves past the security-check point, then stops, glancing at nearby interactive map of the Citadel. What is she looking there for? Maybe that moment of silence Hackett had promised her, in another life. She never got that.

She remembers it clearly enough: the crowds, everyone wishing to congratulate the hero, and how she hates them for it, for not seeing past the 'Commander Shepard' label, past the symbol, to see all those who made the victory possible. She knows that this – the symbol she is becoming – is what they need, what has to be done, but the awareness does not make it easier to bear. Attention is not what she wants – she wants a moment of peace, she wants rest, she wants to be a human being, dammit, and not a bloody symbol... And still, she does her duty, smiling to the camera of the Alliance reporter Spillet. Photos from the event are full of fake smiles plastered to her face: when countless people are shaking her hand, when the Council congratulates and praises her, when other soldiers step aside so that she could be moulded into a symbol for the whole galaxy to see. There are also, very rare, real smiles: when Anderson speaks to her for a moment, sharing her discomfort; when Kaidan smiles and Garrus practically grins at her; when Hackett pins the medal to her uniform and then they shake hands, the grip of his palm on hers firm and reassuring, and there is quiet understanding in his eyes. He sends a message the same evening, apologising for not being able to keep to his word under the circumstances, and Shepard forgives him easily, because he does not forget about her, if for no other reason.

That was two years ago. She has to remind herself of that all too frequently. Two years. Much has changed over that time, and there is this feeling she has yet to discover all the changes, and most of them were not for better.

Quietly, not wishing to be noticed, she slips into _Aqua Vitae_. The bar is not cheap, but it is not crowded either, and cosy, and the drinks are on Cerberus anyway.

...

The drink moves in the glass, tiny waves forming as she swirls. It is orange-pink in colour, which seems like a personal offence to her, and she would scowl at it if she did not need this so badly she does not even know what she is drinking.

The bar is rather empty at such an early hour, and it only makes her feels worse. Her world is already too empty as it is.

Her eyes register a movement and she looks up, to notice a middle-aged man sitting on one of the stools right next to her. An engineer or a scientist, judging by his clothes, and his face is vaguely familiar. He regards her friendly, but no matter how nonintrusive he seems to be, Shepard wants to cut the possible conversation short before it even started, because dammit, she did not come here to talk.

"I'm not interested in talking," she mutters, in her best do-not-come-any-closer kind of voice.

"Then maybe you will simply drink with me, Commander?" he says, and Shepard's head snaps up because this is Hackett, of all people. "I owe you a drink," the Admiral adds.

"I..." However much she resents talking right now, she owes him at least some civility. "Yes. Fine..." She steals another glance at him; without his uniform and his trademark cap, he is invisible. Even she would not recognise him if not for his voice... well, by eyes, maybe.

"You don't look fine," he remarks, put does not press. Just looks at her with these keen, understanding eyes, telling her wordlessly that she does not have to say a thing, but shall she want to, he will listen.

"I don't _feel_ fine," she explains, too harshly, surprising herself with how easily this confession comes to her. Too easily.

"Horizon?" The question is short, but hits all the right spots.

"Seems the military gossip more than housewives," she remarks, somehow sourly, because Horizon is too fresh a wound.

"I wouldn't call a confirmed sighting of Commander Shepard gossip," he rebukes mildly. "Intel is more like it. Thought the report was... not as objective as I would've thought."

"Oh?"

"Alenko is a man of reason. His report was not quite that." Hackett pauses, watching her closely. "Too... personal."

"Forgive me if I won't comment on that, sir," she falls into their usual pattern of speech all too easily, and it is both scary and reassuring.

"I can't really count that as breaching regs on fraternisation. That was two years ago."

"That was a _while _ago," she contradicts fiercely, bitterly. "Those two years, I've been _dead_."

When a reply comes, his voice is very quiet, but clear. "I am well aware of that, Commander."

Shepard looks up at him. Hackett is watching her, though without insistence, and when she meets his eyes it is clearly written in his gaze that he does not blame her for anything.

"My offer still stands," he says evenly. "If you're interested."

"I must decline. I might not like Cerberus, but I try to pay my debts. Always."

"If you feel like it..." He shrugs.

"You won't reproach me, sir? Won't try to convince me?"

"Commander," he says, and again the word holds whole tones of meaning. "I know your, ah, past with Cerberus. Whatever reason motivated your decision must be significant. At least valid enough for me."

"I... thank you, sir, I guess."

"Don't thank me." Suddenly, he looks tired, old.

"Admiral?"

He sighs. "What am I to do with you, Commander?"

"I'm no Commander anymore," she corrects and damn, it hurts.

"That's the crux of the matter. Officially, you were killed in action. And now you walk among the living again... You see, Commander, you've not been released from service."

"Guess the Alliance has no protocols for that," she mutters.

"Not really, no." He glances at her. "I know it is hard for you, Shepard. But I wanted you to understand."

"I do. It's the Alliance that doesn't... Well, maybe with the exception of you, sir." Shepard gets up decisively, determined to leave before she would say too much. This is no time or place, and Hackett is not the one she should burdened with this. "I must go."

Hackett stands up too, and offers his hand. Shepard shakes it gingerly.

"Godspeed to you, Commander," he says.

She swallows as suddenly emotions choke her. God, these words... These words, combined with Alchera... Whoever or whatever she is now, she knows her place in the universe, and damn, it is not with Cerberus.

"I'll be back when this is over," she promises. "I hope you'll figure it all out, sir, by that time."

"I still owe you for that promotion you refused." The exhaustion is gone from him, and Hackett again is that confident, iron-willed officer she knows. "When it's over, Commander, consider yourself reinstated."

"Just like that?"

"There will have to be a questioning, of course. But that's merely a formality." He notices her puzzled expression. "I know more than you think about your actions, and I know there's nothing to worry about yet."

"Joker?" she blurts out, for there is only one possibility. There must be some sensible reason why Joker – Joker, of all people! – joined Cerberus of his own free will.

"That information is classified. But I don't think you need my answer." Hackett nods at her, ready to leave.

"Admiral?" She needs this one answer, she needs it _now_. "Why?" There is a brief pause, and then she adds, quietly: "Why bother?"

"You're a damn good soldier, Shepard, maybe our best, and there's no way in hell I'm losing you to Cerberus permanently."

"You didn't lose me to Cerberus, sir," she says fiercely, because it does not matter she wears a black and white uniform now and not a dark blue one, for her loyalties are constant. "You _never_ will."

"Glad to hear that." Hackett smiles lightly. "Though I've been suspecting that for quite a while."

Shepard watches him thoughtfully. Just how much faith exactly does he have in her? How much trust?

"Go get the job done, Commander," he says, as if nothing changed and she was still an Alliance soldier.

She actually smiles a little at that, surprising them both. "Aye, aye, sir."

* * *

[_5000 XP points for those who guessed where reporter Spillet came from :)_ ]


	12. Visible Light

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and especially for the reviews. They're always welcome :)

(And no, this is not the final chapter.)

* * *

**...**

**Visible Light**

**...**

Her hand hurts, because her nails dig into skin too sharply. Shepard is standing at the viewing panel in Galileo, among her colleagues, hands clasped behind her back tightly.

"On my mark," orders Wainwright into the comm. "Three, two, one. Go."

The Charon relay comes back to life, lighting up with a surge of energy as the space team ignites mass effect start-up engines. The energy discharges and the glow vanishes, but the relay is illuminated, as it used to be, by a complicated pattern of control lights.

"_SSV _Tesla_ to Gagarin, ready to proceed?_"

"Gagarin to _SSV Tesla_, engines up and running, relay appears to be functioning all right. You're clear to proceed."

"_Very well. Jump in three, two, one..._"

Shepard holds her breath as the relay flashes up, right as it used to, and her memory paints the view with bright blues and radiant whites, the contrast stark against the dark background of space even in her monochrome vision.

There is a moment of tension, and then a ship appears.

"_We're through, safe and sound..._" The rest of the statement is drowned out by thunderous applause.

Shepard gives in to the euphoria, celebrating their victory – for this is it, proof they indeed won, proof that everything will get better, that things will become easier. And most certainly it is proof that she might get to see Hackett in person any day now.

...

The hatch opens and the commanding officer comes ashore, some Alliance Captain Shepard is not familiar with. He is followed by a salarian, scientist, judging by his attire, and as the alien comes closer Shepard does not even try to contain a cry of joy.

"Mordin!"

"Shepard." Mordin smiles, wasting time for a welcome, which speaks clearly how glad he is of this meeting.

She puts a hand on his shoulder, then decides his comfort can be forgotten for a moment and hugs him briefly.

Mordin shoos her away from him, but gently, not really irritated. "Ah, glad to see you," and the way he articulates 'see' contains a question.

"My eyes are fine," she says. "Well, I'd like to have colour back, one day. And my spine's holding up somehow."

He pats her back awkwardly. "One thing at a time."

"Mordin, why are you here? My further treatment can wait, and besides..."

"My idea, my plans, my responsibility," he interrupts, explaining. "If a failure, my fault. Left notes what to correct, fortunately, those unnecessary now."

"So, it is safe?"

"Should know better than doubt me, Shepard."

"When you're going back, I'm coming with you. To Arcturus," she specifies. What she means is: to her friends, and, first and foremost, to Hackett. She never thought she would admit it, but she misses someone she could lean on, in that figurative sense of the words.

"In a few days. Some arrangements must be made, or so the Captain says. Meanwhile, I'd like to examine you again."

Shepard sighs wearily; she is getting tired of all the medical attention. "Just no injections, okay?"

...

When she is certain the examination is finally over, for he must have run out of medical imaging methods by now, Mordin draws out an empty syringe.

"Need to take a sample."

"Oh, great." She has faced the Reapers, the Collectors, she has faced Cerberus, she has had her leg sewn without an anaesthetic once, she has seen her own death, and still seeing an injection needle makes her uneasy. She closes her eyes, trying to think of something more pleasant, but fails. Then she thinks how Hackett would probably laugh at her – well, not laugh, just point out how amusing it is, fearless Commander Shepard afraid of needles. This helps, finally, because she suddenly feels she has to prove herself she does not fear something so trivial.

"Stay still."

"As if I was going anywhere... Ouch!"

"Told you to stay still."

"Sorry. It's just... unpleasant."

"Fear of medical needles common among every species. Amusing."

"I'm not afraid," she protests, more in an attempt to convince herself that to maintain her image of a fearless hero. Mordin has already seen her both weary and afraid before.

"No worry, won't tell anyone. Doctor-patient trust sacred."

...

Mordin has the results ready the same evening, and even though the purpose of her visit was to simply sit and talk, he draws the charts out.

"Looks different than expected. Spine: easy." He pauses, momentarily, as if troubled. "Eyes: not so much."

"Explain," Shepard requests curtly.

"Filling up the holes in your spine – one or two simple surgeries and that's it. Will require regular injections afterwards, though. Eyes... more problematic. Need better equipment. Should be arranged after a call to Sur'Kesh."

"Got it. So, when?"

"After return to Arcturus. Your spine, some rest, then your eyes. Not that complicated, only..."

"Problematic. Yes. Heard it the first time."

"You're welcome, Shepard."

"What?"

"Guess you meant: 'Thank you'."

"Mordin, no offence, but I'd rather wait with thanks until..."

The salarian shakes his head, apparently amused. "So little faith in me, Shepard?"

"Of course not!"

"Then: you're welcome." Mordin smiles. "All will be fine."

"I'm sorry, Mordin."

"No need to. All right."

"Guess I'm just scared," she mutters, because damn, they have fought together, have been through the outskirts of hell and back, and she owes him some sincerity, and she definitely owes him some kindness and more than a bit of trust.

"Understandable. But, no worries." Mordin stands up to finally get the drinks. While is mixing something into water, he glances over at Shepard. "Admiral Hackett very diplomatically made it clear he'll have my head should something go wrong."

Shepard barely keeps from smiling, trying to imagine that. "Charming."

"Nice to know someone appreciates what you've done, at least, Shepard."

"Still, he shouldn't..."

"Don't need such arguments to do my best when patching you up."

...

Making her departure secret is out of the question, but Shepard tries to delay the news. She informs Kaminski, of course, as he is running the station now, but it is more courtesy than obligation: she is not part of the Alliance military any longer. No one of the crew knows yet, not even Katya – Shepard would not have Katya despairing over losing another friend, and she would not be able to listen how wonderful and romantic it would be once she and Hackett are reunited. Katya means well, but Shepard feels her comments would be out place, would take something away from her by touching a topic that should not be mentioned aloud, at least not yet. So, she keeps quiet about that. Everyone is still so ecstatic about getting the relay operational again they do not even notice, except for Doc. He suspects something, but does not ask, and so Shepard explains nothing to him, but can at least be certain he will hold no grudge against her for it, because he would do the same.

After a day of hesitation, she also notifies Wainwright, promising to finish that last project for him before she leaves, and he just tells her not to worry about the project, because someone else can handle it, and she has other priorities. Shepard does not agree with that, so in the end they work it out together, over a bottle of brandy. There is something slightly odd in the way Wainwright treats her, then as the evening goes on it dawns on her that he knows.

"You're a skilled engineer, you'll do fine out there," Wainwright says unexpectedly in the middle of recalculating the planned air filters efficiency. "Grissom, I've heard?" he adds, before she is able to ask what the hell he means.

"He told you?" she asks. The proverbial ground beneath her feet suddenly becomes unstable. Damn, she really is not used to having her private life discussed with anyone, and this... Even knowing Hackett and Wainwright are friends, even knowing it is only natural to talk of such things, she cannot get the grasp of it. And she has no idea what to say or do.

"Yes, Steve mentioned it." Wainwright looks up from his work. "Hey, what's wrong?"

Shepard is too confused to give him an answer.

"You'll have to get used to this," the chief engineer says. "It's not like the rest of the world will be oblivious forever."

"Why the whole world suddenly has the need to talk about my private life?" she inquires, irritated, but there are shades of resignation in her voice.

"I'm not the whole world. But you can't seriously think that you can have private life? You're Commander Shepard, _the_ Commander Shepard. That means no privacy." He returns to work.

She does the same, letting the topic drop.

"I've known Steve for about thirty years; it wasn't difficult to figure out there was someone in his life. So I asked, and eventually he answered. But he never mentioned your name." Wainwright's eyes are focused on the datapad before him. "Not directly."

"I don't..." she begins, unsure what to say. Why is she even discussing it with someone who is barely more than her superior, not even a colleague? "I don't doubt him. _Ever_."

"Listen, Shepard." Wainwright puts the work away, sweeping the datapads aside. "I know it seems odd. But I respect you, and Steve's my friend."

"It's okay," she says flatly, still too confused.

"You don't belong here, you never have. Your body's here, but your mind is there, it's been like that since we found you." Wainwright smiles warmly at her. "Gagarin's been but a stop on your way all along. Just hope it's been plausible."

"It's been fine, Chief."

He nods at her, and the conversation is over. He never tells her how she will have to get used to talking of all the things most civilised people do, and it makes her vaguely aware there might be other difficulties ahead, ones she does not even expect.

...

_Tesla_'s engines are already on, the hatch is open, and someone onboard yelling at Shepard to hurry and asking where the hell her friend the doctor is, and that five minutes more and they will have to wait for another transport.

"Coming!" Shepard shouts in reply, stopping for that one last time before getting onto the ship.

Wainwright grasps her hand briefly. "Give my good-luck wishes to Steve."

"I will." Shepard nods, accepting both the request and the fact she has just acknowledged Hackett has become 'Steve' to her, and not only in her thoughts and private talks with him. That definitely is a step forward.

"How does he say it? Godspeed to you?" Wainwright smiles. "Go and make us here at Gagarin proud."

"How I'm supposed to..."

"Teaching at Grissom is something to be proud of," he interrupts. "Come on, go get aboard."

"I'll try to get you all some nice quarters." Doctor Chakwas cuts in, smiling. "I should be back in a month or so."

"Be sure to miss us, Karin." Wainwright smiles at the doctor.

Chakwas snorts. "Roche can manage patching you all up."

"No respect for the doctor on his own station," says Doc dryly. "Yeah, fine, got used to it."

Shepard grasps his hand. "Thanks, Doc. For everything."

Instead of some humorous or ironic phrase, or a quote from their past, he gives her a sincere, good old-fashioned: "You're welcome."

"Send a vid," Katya demands, briefly hugging Shepard before she has time to notice what is going on. Apparently, Shepard has been forgiven she did not tell Katya she was going to leave.

"Okay. And I'll say hello to Astrid for you if I meet her," Shepard promises. Then she finally gets inside, following doctor Chakwas. "Shepard to _Tesla_, we're ready for take-off."

"Remember to give the handkerchief back!" Katya has to almost shout, and still her words are barely comprehensible above the loud hum of engines.

"What?"

"Handkerchief!"

Shepard laughs, and Katya does the same, someone waves, and Kaminski all of a sudden salutes her, but she does not manage to answer to his gesture before the hatch closes.

Promising Mordin to show up later for further treatment planning, she goes down to the engineering, and spends some times here, just watching the charges blooming on the engine's core and listening to the noise.

The sound is beautiful, in a way. So wonderfully familiar. There is a corresponding rush of blood, pulse humming in her ears. She will fly again; a part of her old life given back to her. And, in time, she will walk normally again, and see the world in colour. And see her friends. And... And if Joker interrupts her in anything again, she will make him regret it, definitely.

...

The Arturus station looks different from the old one she remembers, but from the moment she sets foot on the metal floor in the landing area, it feels the same. It is not difficult to understand why the Alliance decided to rebuild the station where it used to be: it is a symbol, to everyone, of the victory. From what Shepard has heard, the station fulfils some of the functions the Citadel used to, being the temporary centre to the galactic politics. Most of the salarians, the krogan and the quarians have returned to their home planets, but the turians and the asari were less lucky, being limited to some of their colonies only, just like humans.

"Miranda just called, your quarters are ready," says doctor Chakwas, getting out of the ship and stopping by Shepard. "Do you want me to show your around, Commander?"

"It's just 'Shepard' now," she corrects mildly. "Thanks, doctor, but no. I'd just like to wander around for a bit, while no one knows I'm here. Is there a map I could upload on my omni-tool?"

"Yes, right. Give me a second..." Chakwas searches through the files on her omni-tool. "Ah, here it is. Sending."

"Thanks. I'll be back in a few hours, unless my spine decides it's time for rest earlier."

"Miranda said she had seen to everything, but if you'll need help, call me. I'll drop by in the evening."

"Okay. Treatment starts tomorrow, right?"

Chakwas smiles. "This way, we might get it done before Hackett returns, since he won't be back before another week or two. Enough time for the surgeries."

"But?" Shepard prompts. She has talked the treatment over with Mordin already, and more or less knows what to expect.

"The rehab will take some time. But we'll talk about this later."

"Good idea. See you later, doctor."

"Enjoy your tour, Shepard."

...

She is walking along another hall slowly, looking around, trying to feel the vibe of the place. It really is similar to what it used to be, different maybe in the slightest bit. Maybe, she thinks, places do not change that much. Or maybe it is the name that brings the atmosphere back, and her memories.

She almost bumps into someone, and quickly offers a quiet 'Sorry'.

"It's all right... Oh, wait, aren't you Commander Shepard?" asks the woman.

Shepard recognizes the man beside her and groans inwardly, praying that she is mistaken. Heavens, why him, of all people?!

"Many people ask me that," she replies, forcing a smile and hoping it will pass as a joke and get her rid of them both.

"Oh. Sorry to bother you," says the man. "Come on, Jenna," he adds, turning, pulling the woman aside.

"But, Conrad..."

"Hey, baby, I'd sure recognize Commander Shepard, right? And I'm telling you, she looked different."

"Well, if you're sure..."

Shepard watches as they walk away, chatting. Some things in the universe seem never to change, like her just having to run into Conrad Verner every time she has least patience for it. She wonders if he really did not recognize her, and as she passes by a glass panel in the wall, she takes a glance at her reflection.

It... Well, it actually is possible she would not recognise herself, if she did not already know how she changed since the war. Her hair is longer, drawn back in a ponytail so it would not get in her eyes constantly, and it really makes her look different. The look in her eyes is changed, too. She used to wear the expression of a fighter, now she wears the expression of a, well, normal person. Tired by the war and all the rebuilding, but also hopeful.

...

"Commander Shepard!" calls someone after her – thankfully, not very loud – when she is walking down the main plaza, which, unlike the one on Gagarin, fully deserves the name.

Shepard turns, and stares. She would never associate the person and the voice with the features she is seeing: Astrid is striking, and even with slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and frown lines between her eyebrows and the stern look on her face, it is evident that a few years back she was a beauty.

"Commander Sheldhorn."

Astrid smiles slowly, her features softening. "Commander Shepard. I hoped I might meet you here."

"You knew I was here?"

"News travel fast. Gossip travels faster." Astrid pauses. "Katya called," she admits. Light reflection flickers in something on her finger: a ring.

"You married?" Shepard blurts out, without thinking. "Oh. I'm sorry..."

"Yes. Remember Daniel Morgan?"

"Wasn't he your little boy's relative?"

"Uncle, yes. Sam lives with him now. But Sam wouldn't let me leave, and believe me, I've tried different things. So, this. I was getting tired of those questioning looks from everyone."

"Astrid, I don't wish to pry..."

"It's no secret I lost my husband and son to the war," Astrid says, her tone tired, and Shepard understand the braid crowning her head is not fair, but grey. War has marked her, as it has marked everyone else. Astrid catches the look on Shepard's face and sighs. "And what I did won't return them to me. But it will give one little boy a mother. This is no betraying our lost," she says, fiercely.

"I've never even thought that," Shepard assures softly.

Astrid gives her a measuring look. "You've changed."

Shepard tries to duck the question there. Astrid is a reliable woman, very straight-to-the-point, not unlike Shepard herself, but this is... not a good topic to talk to her about, especially not now. "Got my sight back."

Astrid's eyebrows quirk, but she does not comment. "We'll figure it all out," she says, words soothing and reassuring, and Shepard curses inwardly that it is Astrid comforting her and not the other way round.

It dawns on Shepard she is tired of this, of always being the stronger, inspiring one. God, she needs rest... Though thinking of the upcoming treatment and the time she will have to spend in bed almost cancels the 'rest' part. And besides... she is not very good with all that not being the stronger one stuff, no matter how much she needs it sometimes.

"Welcome to the land of humanity," says Astrid dryly.

"Don't patronise me, Ast."

"You may be the hero of the whole galaxy, Shepard. But sometimes..." Astrid breaks off, shaking her head. Then she smiles, both sadly and happily, and Shepard realises it is a smile of wisdom. "It's all there is," Astrid says quietly. "Living for others. That's something you should know well."

"Astrid."

"Oh, don't worry, Shepard, I'm not going to preach. You're an adult woman, you've been through enough to know some things." She catches Shepard's glare, but is not moved in the least. "Come, I have dug out some last reserve of tea."

Shepard nods, not quite convinced, but she has nothing better to do anyway. "Yeah. Fine."

"Want a little tour first? I've not been here much, but I can show you around. And don't worry, I'm not going to make you talk about anything you don't want to. Hate such things myself."

"And here I thought I'm so unique..." Shepard makes an effort to joke and, surprisingly, it makes things a little easier.

...

The surgeries, just as Mordin expected, went smoothly, and now Shepard is confined to bed, getting daily injections and, as the whole colour vision business turned out less complicated than expected, appreciating the world of colours again, but generally just hating the inactivity. She tries to cope with that, reading furiously and watching some old vids on her omni-tool. She would like to be up again, but having both Mordin and Chakwas fussing over her makes that impossible.

It also gives her sleep troubles at night, because sometimes during the day she dozes off, and then, like now, it is well past midnight and she is lying awake. Left alone in the unfamiliar medlab, she also feels lonely.

She reaches out for her omni-tool, activates it and, after a minute of hesitation, calls Hackett. Damn, why she cannot stop calling him 'Hackett' when thinking of him?

She would prefer the quantum, but the video has to suffice. The holo-screen unfolds and flickers with interference, then the signal clears.

Hackett immediately notices she is abed. "_Are you all right?_"

"I'm fine. Just had the first part of my spine surgery two days ago and Mordin ordered me to rest." She notices the change on Hackett's face as he is solving the puzzle, and she smiles. "Greetings from Arcturus, Steve."

"_Just don't tell me it was meant to be a surprise._"

"Guilty as charged."

"_I hate surprises._" His face softens in an expression that is not quite a smile, one he wears sometimes only when talking with her. "_But I might make an exception for this one._"

"When are you coming back?

"_Three, four days. Since you like surprises, I won't tell you exactly._"

"I'd better get payback for this."

"_I wouldn't worry about that. Get well soon, Theresa._"

"I wouldn't worry about that."

He smiles, instead of a goodbye. "_Sleep well_."

...

The walls are the dark Alliance blue, softly lit by the light panels. At her side, something is giving out a quiet, regular beep.

Her mind is no longer hazy, as the sedatives have finally worn off, and the pain in her spine is no longer a torture, just a nuisance, one both Mordin and Chakwas reassure will be gone in a few days.

The pillow dips more as she presses her head back into it. Getting the injections was fine, getting mild anaesthetics less so yet still acceptable, but now the hardest part was coming: the convalescence. She was probably going to die of boredom. So much for the glorious beginnings of her stay on Arcturus.

There are voices outside, audible through the closed door. Shepard tries to get up, or at least sit up, as the door opens.

"She needs rest. She's asle-... Shepard! You're supposed to be resting!"

Shepard opens her eyes and smiles weakly. "Doctor Chakwas."

"How are you feeling?"

"Ah, much better. Can tell the ceiling from the floor now."

"Very funny, Shepard. Your spine?"

"Better. But I won't refuse some soft painkillers for a while yet."

"I'll get you something."

"Karin?" There is someone else standing at the threshold. "Five minutes." Hackett.

Chakwas grimaces, but lets him in. "Okay. Five minutes." She leaves, giving Shepard one last concerned glance. Then she waves a finger at Hackett. "Don't you pester her too much, Steve."

The door closes.

"Theresa."

She makes an effort to sit.

"No, no, don't try to get up." He waves his hand at her, with no effect.

Shepard tries again, but falls back onto the pillow.

With a quiet sigh, Hackett walks over to the bunk. "Must you be so stubborn?"

"Just strong-willed."

He smiles indulgently at that. "Stubborn."

"Strong-willed. I know better."

Hackett lays a datapad on the nearby locker. "Brought you some books." He pulls up a stool, but before he sits down Shepard pats the mattress beside her, then moves aside so that he can sit on the bunk next to her. After a brief moment of hesitation, he does, leaning towards her so that he can speak quietly. "How are you feeling?"

"As good as new, thanks to Mordin and doctor Chakwas."

"They've done a good job."

They fall silent. Shepard watches his face, his eyes, the ghost of a smile hovering at his lips.

"I've been waiting for you," she says, and this has him snap to attention in a splinter of a second. His eyes focus on her; she meets his gaze and holds it steadily. His pale eyes are like stars, not those poetic stars but the real ones: having their own gravity, enough to pull her in. "I've been waiting for you, Steven," she repeats in a whisper. Then she reaches up, touching his face. "Let me see you?" she asks softly.

He smiles. "I'm afraid I looked better before you regained you sight."

A murmured, impatient 'Hackett, dammit' does it, and he nods, then waits patiently as her fingertips skim across his features, his eyes never leaving her face. Shepard watches closely as her hands are mapping out familiar contours and lines, learning his face by sight now that she already knows it by touch.

Her thumb brushes his lips and Hackett leans down to kiss her, gently; she winds her arms around his neck, her breath hitching at the simple contact and the sheer proximity of him. After the long wait suddenly he is here, right beside her, and there is only so much emotion she can contain. As they part, she draws a deep, shaky breath, and it thrills her to see that his breath, too, is far from steady.

She pulls him closer for another kiss, smiling against his lips. His cap falls off and she catches it last moment to save if from falling down all the way to the floor.

"I think I'll keep it," she says, ruffling his hair in an entirely too childish, affectionate gesture. Yes, her stay on the Arcturus is definitely becoming much more interesting.

He cradles her against him, and she lets him hold her, resting her head on his shoulder, basking in the warmth of his embrace, revelling in the sensation of his hands against her back, now she can finally feel the touch. There is no space magic, time does not stop, but for a while she lets herself get lost in this feeling that warms her up from the inside, lets herself drown in it as for a brief moment there is nothing in the universe but him and her. She burrows her face against his neck and lets out a sigh of both relief and contentment, and he kisses the top of her head, whispering something intelligible in a soft, low tone.

Things are going to get real weird, real soon, when he will have to leave and next time they meet she will again be engineer Shepard and he will be the Fleet Admiral. There will be duties to perform and there will scarcely be time to even consider them an item. There has never really been time, even during his stay on Gagarin, except for those rare rendezvous over a report, drink or plain talk. Next time something like that happens, she is going to make him stay for a while longer with her. And preferably in bed. And she will have some coffee prepared, and for the rest of the night they will talk. Oh, well, not just talk. But talking will be important. Like, sixty-forty for talk. Oh, well, maybe fifty-fifty. Oh, to hell with talking...

"Shepard, time for..." Mordin is at the door, having come for a routine check of her medical progress. "Admiral Hackett? Ah... Will come back later."

"Guess this solves one problem before it even existed," notes Hackett dryly.

"Mordin won't tell anyone."

"Ashamed of me, Theresa?" He softens the words with a smile.

"Nonsense." She pauses. "But people will talk, you know."

"I don't give a damn about it."

He kisses her again, barely a brush of lips against hers, very sweet, but much too light to her taste right now.

"Admiral, I know you can do better," she teases.

"You're supposed to rest."

"I'm resting."

"Theresa. Don't make me tell Karin to sedate you."

"What?!"

"That was a joke. But you must rest."

Shepard sighs. "I will. At least you can't pull rank on me any longer."

"Unfortunately. But, technically..."

"You and your technicalities, Hackett... You haven't had enough people questioning or opposing your orders, you know. You like being in command far too much."

"Look who says so..."

Shepard smiles. "Guess we'll have to negotiate."

"We'll come to that, eventually. Once you're fully recovered."

She stares at him, then smirks. "Never thought I'd witness you flirting, Admiral."

"We learn something new every day, don't we?"

She reaches out and puts her hand over his, fingers brushing the back of his palm lightly. It is surprisingly difficult to find something to talk about right now. Via the comm, there was always too little time to talk about everything, and now she has him right here, next to her... Words are gone, dispelled. But she would not like him to leave either. It is fine as it is, him just being there, close and real, and finally in flesh, not just a holo projection.

Shepard experiences a sudden, vivid recollection of their meeting before the final assault on the Cerberus headquarters, his face near hers, and how he reminded her never to forget what she was fighting for. She swore she would not, hand over his, swore it on the trust she had in him and he in her. Looking at him now, she thinks she kept her promise. She remembers, but not only that. Since then, she has discovered more, and won something she had not even been fighting for at the time. Then again, maybe she had. Maybe she just did not know what it was.

Her musing are interrupted by a sound of door opening.

"It was ten minutes, Steven, and now she really has to rest." Doctor Chakwas bursts into the room, practically shooing Hackett out, and Shepard cannot refrain from laughing.

"I'll drop by later," he promises, squeezing her hand gently.

"You're sure?" she asks as he gets up. "No duties, politics, state matters?"

Hackett smiles. "I'd think a woman who saved the galaxy _is_ a state matter."


	13. Depth of Field

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and especially for the reviews. They're always welcome :)

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, **Janka**.

* * *

**...**

**Depth of Field**

**...**

Thank heavens, they moved on from nutrition paste to wafers on a full scale.  
An ex-marine – Shepard cannot recall his name right now – who has always dreamt of settling down and opening a bakery, is running the 'cantina' – a lifetime dream came true, in a crooked kind of way.

Shepard orders a wafer and a coffee – which, thanks to the immense amount of work the biotechnologists put to their job, finally has aroma as well as flavour. Not perfect, but it can pass as a civilized meal.

She leans back in the chair, nibbling the wafer and watching the plaza. They are opening a new store near the cantina, and she is trying to guess what would that be. Food or clothes, most probably. The asari owner is having troubles with lights, which apparently are not working, and a human engineer is looking through a bunch of cables, trying to figure out what is wrong. Lamps light up – he succeeds. The asari starts thanking him, but he just waves it away, the gesture reminding Shepard very much of what she used to do so often, when she meant that helping was just the natural thing to do. The two chat for a moment longer, and as the engineer finally turns to walk away, Shepard catches a few words about a future discount the asari directs at him, smiling widely.

He is walking by the cantina, and as he approaches, Shepard recognizes Hackett's features, and the already familiar way he smiles at her. She waves at him, beckoning him to come sit with her.

"Hey there." Shepard smiles up at him, momentarily uncertain whether she should stop at words only, or would a more personal welcome be acceptable. Hackett solves her dilemma by putting his hand over hers, the touch light but lingering.

"Theresa. Glad to see you out of the medlab." He takes a seat. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." She takes a closer look at him. Seeing him in an old engineer's outfit instead of a uniform, and one that has certainly seen its better days, just feels... Weird, but in a good way, if there can even be such a thing.

"Something wrong?" He quirks his eyebrows at her, but his tone is light.

"Making fun of me, are you?"

A smile flickers on his lips. "Wouldn't dare. So... What is it?"

"Your clothes. It just looks so... I don't know, different."

"Domestic?" he prompts, less than half seriously.

Shepard realises, with some amazement, that yes, this is it. He does not look an admiral now, just – just a man. So very ordinarily, and yes, dammit, domestic is the word. She has never really even imagined a more serious, long-lasting relationship before, much less a home or family of her own, she has never been inclined that way, and there was always so much to do... There is nothing, not anymore, and Shepard risks a very cautious thought that maybe she could have the safe, quiet haven she has grown to crave so much, maybe she could find it at his side.

Hackett taps her arm lightly. "Come back."

She blinks, confused, then focuses on here and now.

"Where were you?" The look in his eyes is soft, with an amused edge to it.

"Away. But not far."

"Care for a walk with me?"

"I'd like that. Haven't been around much before the treatment began."

He helps her get up, which is unnecessary but allows their hands to touch for a few seconds, and then, ignoring her protests, he pays for them both, and they walk down the main plaza, not touching or holding hands, but close enough to indicate they are together. It seems he does not like public displays of affection, and, frankly speaking, she is glad, because she is not one for those either. Something discreet, like their greeting, an occasional touch or brush of hands – that she is fine with, but no more, not really.

They stop at the terrace overlooking the spaceport, standing side by side, elbows resting at the railing. It feels good, being close to him like that, she muses, watching the traffic below.

"I've heard you're doing well at Grissom."

"I wouldn't call it doing anything, not yet. We've got a major discussion scheduled for this week, preparing plans, assigning subjects, that kind of stuff. You?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Politics, travels, politics..."

"Comes with being a Fleet Admiral." She smiles lightly at him. "And a war hero."

"As if you weren't a hero yourself..."

"I'd gladly share my media time."

"I'm afraid you won't be able to escape that."

"How comforting."

"You're welcome."

"You know, Steve, sometimes you're such a goddamn pain in the... neck."

"Oh, thank you."

"You're welcome."

They fall silent. Her hand brushes against his when she moves, and she takes hold of his palm and laces her fingers through his. He looks at their joined hands, then squeezes her palm gently.

When he speaks, his voice is hushed. "Back there, near the end of the battle, I thought we've lost you down there. I thought..." He inhales audibly, briefly closing his eyes. "Thought I had sent you to your death."

Her first impulse is to say she thought she would die there, alone, but considering his words, she cannot. He knows it; it is his battle scar, one that has not yet healed completely and maybe never will.

"And I probably would have if I had been left on the Citadel," She says finally. "You're the mass effect specialist here: how did I wind up back on Earth?" she adds, in a lighter tone.

"Scientifically speaking? Coincidence. Though I like to think it was by miracle."

She tries to laugh. "You know, I've almost died quoting Tennyson. After helping save the galaxy. You can't really get it much more epic, can you?"

Hackett smiles. "No, I think not. Major Sinclair would've been proud." The smile is but a flash, and he grows serious again very quickly. "What happened out there, Theresa?"

Shepard remains silent. She wants to share it with him, eventually, just is not absolutely certain this is the right moment.

His hold lightens, then he turns her hand over and his thumb begins softly tracing vague lines on her palm. Shepard's breath hitches; simple tenderness like this is not something she is used to.

"You don't have to answer," he says quietly. "Just know that if you'll ever want to, I'm here to listen."

She wants to answer. Her hand slides out of his, to grip the railing, but he catches her palm and her fingers clutch at his hand instead. He does not withdraw even though she holds so tightly her knuckles go white. She holds onto him, knowing she can hold onto him in that more metaphorical sense, too, and he will keep her standing tall.

"I can't even remember it clearly. Maybe it's for the better, I can't tell. I remember Anderson sitting beside me, talking, and a moment later he was dead... I remember you calling, telling me the Crucible wouldn't fire, and I tried to crawl to the console, but I think I fainted before I reached it. I'm... I'm not sure. And neither about what happened next. There was this child I've kept seeing in my dreams, just that time he looked like a VI of sorts, telling me about what choices did I have, but it made no sense. Why give me choices? What was that all about?" Shepard shrugs. "Guess I must've done something, just can't remember. How long had you been waiting before the Crucible fired?"

"Waiting? We didn't have to wait. I called you, you tried to answer but then your comm broke down, I think. And then it was done. Almost instantly."

"Maybe I'm just crazy."

"Or maybe you've been through too much and at the end of your endurance. Or maybe it was the Reaper artefacts influence finally catching up with you." He closes both his hands around hers. "Let it go, Theresa. You made it, and it's all that matters." He squeezes her hand lightly. "That, and the fact you're alive."

On an impulse, she reaches into her pocket and takes out the handkerchief. It is washed clean, but there are faint traces of blood that did not want to fade away completely, and there is a hole burnt through. But the letters are intact, standing out clearly against the cloth.

"Your handkerchief. Sorry about the damage, by the way."

He glances at the cloth, a flash of astonishment in his eyes.

"You took it into battle?" he asks, baffled.

"I guess I just wanted a reminder someone somewhere believed in me."

"The majority of the galaxy believed in you."

She holds onto his hand more tightly. "The majority of the galaxy has not been continuously proving it to me."

...

"_Just let me check my schedule..._" Liara looks aside, her face briefly lit by the screen of her computer. "_Yes, I'll probably be passing by Arcturus in a fortnight._"

"Planning any free time?"

"_Shepard, what kind of question is that?_ _So..._"

A chirp of the doorbell interrupts her, announcing an incoming visitor.

"Sorry, Liara, I have to go. Mail me when you'll know the exact date, all right? And try to convince Garrus to visit, too." Shepard grins. "As far as I remember, he owes me a drink."

"_Consider it done. If he tries to make any excuses, I'll have the Broker squad abduct him_," Liara promises. "_So long, Shepard._"

Shepard turns the comm off and hurries to open the door, knowing who will be waiting there.

"Hey," she says, smiling at Steven. "Come in."

"Theresa." He smiles slightly, saying her name, and this is all the welcome she needs.

Well, maybe not quite. He reads the look on her face and leans towards her, lightly kissing the corner of her lips.

Shepard tilts her head and kisses him on the mouth, hands grabbing the lapels of his uniform. Her hands move to his shoulders a moment before his back touches the wall. Hackett catches her wrists gently, but firmly, and pulls away to look at her. She meets his gaze and holds it steadily, her face inches from his, their breaths mingling. When she kisses him again, hungrily, he responds... and then his kiss softens, becomes quieting and soothing, his hands slide down hers, fingers intertwining, and in a while it is her back that is leaning against the wall Shepard could easily reverse their positions, but she does nothing like that. After all those years of working under his orders, she is used to him taking the lead, used to trusting his better judgement. And although they are not on the battlefield – not anymore – she knows she can trust him just as much. Or maybe she can trust him even more.

When she is calmer – because his kisses are tender, and just that – he pulls away.

"We need to talk," he says quietly.

Shepard nods. "Okay."

They walk over to the sofa, and when he sits down, she settles next to him, pulling her legs up and over his lap. He puts his hand on her leg, forearm resting on her calf and his palm warm over her knee, but again, this touch does not convey desire. Just affection. Shepard realizes, with some discomfort, that she has never had time for that before.

"Theresa?"

She looks up. He is watching her, trying to catch her gaze. When he does, he looks into her eyes.

"There's no need to rush," he says softly.

"Last time we got to that, you weren't so insistent on waiting."

"Last time, we were about to part, and I had been waiting for you for months. Even I have only a given amount of self-control."

Her fingertips brush his palm. "Must you have so much?"

"Sometimes, yes." It tugs at her heart a little, the way he looks at her, as if his world was focusing itself into a single point – her, as if she were the very core of the universe, the only world that matters. "It won't be perfect, because perfect doesn't exist, but it can get close enough. If we don't rush it."

Shepard sighs. "Sometimes I don't get you, Steve. We have trust, I know you care, you know I do, why..."

"Have you ever had time for this? Sitting, talking? Just that?"

"I... No," she realizes, with mild astonishment. "Not really, no." She shakes her head. "I'm no good at that, Steve. It's..."

He waits for her answer patiently.

Shepard sighs again, then leans against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "There was no time, not really." She cannot help but think of Kaidan, and his reluctance to breach the chain of command even after they made it through Ilos, and how difficult it was to talk when the danger was gone. "Or no conditions," she adds. This is not quite her fault; back with the Reds they did not talk like that, ever. In her childhood, maybe, but over the years she has forgotten how to do it. She looks up at Hackett. "Oh. There's more, I see."

"Please hear me out, Theresa." He waits until she nods, and only then continues. "Talking via the comm or getting into bed together is one thing. Living together is a completely different matter. No, no, don't fret, I want no declarations from you, not yet. All I wanted to say is I'm not looking for an affair. Not necessarily for a happily-ever-after either, but for a relationship that will last for some time."

"But what does that have to do with..."

"You don't know me in everyday life, face to face. Give it some time."

"Steve, I've been waiting for almost two years already."

A momentary hint of a smile flickers on his lips. "I've been waiting longer than that. I'm not saying months or years, Theresa. Just weeks." He pauses. "I'd just like to know if we'd be able to have more than just sharing comm talks by day and sharing a bed at night."

Shepard can read it in his eyes: what he has just said is true, all of it. Well, not quite all of it. From what she can see, he would like that happily-ever-after part, too. It would not be ever-happily, but, truth to be told, she would have no objections about the ever after part. It is just... she feels so utterly lost in this. Talking about feelings, plans, dreams, fears – it is not her thing. And the perspective she will have to learn that, the fact she has to do it right now if only to answer him, it scares the hell out of her.

"Theresa? It's all up to you now," he says slowly, very quietly.

When Shepard covers his hand with hers, she makes sure the move is certain, confident. "I'd like to learn more of that taking-it-slow business."

He sees past her fake certainty. "Are you sure?"

She forces a smile, careful to add a hue of mischievousness. "Oh, yes, sir."

"Theresa..."

Shepard puts two fingers across his lips to hush him. "Steven. I mean it. Every word. We'll wait. Until my rehab is over, and then we'll see, okay?"

"Yes."

She kisses him, trying to keep it tender and gentle, and only that. When they part, her hands cup his face. She is not ready to let him go, not yet, not for today. She looks deeply into his eyes. "Stay here tonight, Steven. With me."

"Theresa..."

"Just stay. Hold me to sleep." She wants a few calm hours with him, alone. She wants him to keep the nightmares at bay, and she is certain he will do so. "We've done that before, remember? And in the morning we'll see if we're able to eat breakfast together."

"I'll stay."

There is an awkward moment of silence, and Shepard understands what he meant about being together. Talking of small, everyday matters, of likes and dislikes, and hundreds of other tiny details, building up to a life...

"You're awfully pensive today," Steven says, touching her shoulder gently.

"Oh, that. Sorry. It's just..."

"Theresa." His hand cups her face again, thumb brushing her cheek tenderly. "Stop fretting. It'll be fine."

She just sighs in response, having no more words. It will take time.

"So," he begins, "what do you usually do at this hour?"

"Dunno. Read, probably. I have to prepare the syllabus for my classes at Grissom."

Steven smiles at her. "Will you show me?"

"The list of lectures? Yes, no problem... Wait a second." She pulls up her omni-tool, then sets it to project the digital screen onto an empty wall. At the top of the booklist, there is a quote from Tennyson, well known to both of them. Shepard smiles a little, laughing at herself. "I just had to include it," she says.

He glances at the subject name. "So, you'll be doing astrophysics?"

"Yes. Maybe something else later, like practical battle engineering or computer and VI hacking, you know, but for now, just astro."

"See?" He takes her hand. "You're doing fine."

"It's... not that hard. But..."

"Theresa, you don't have to..."

"Steve, if I don't say it now, I won't dare say it at all. Talking to you has always come easily to me, just... It's difficult to talk while being close to you like this. But I want to learn."

"One step at a time, right?"

...

Falling asleep together proves surprisingly easy to both her and Steven. After all, they have been there before, once. And besides, with only soft shadows and darkness around, everything seems easier, for the whole perspective of the world is different.

What Shepard is afraid of is waking up together. Before, it has always been either not staying over for the night, or her setting the alarm in her clock to wake her up earlier. And now, because it is her first time, it makes her absolutely, utterly terrified. That things will go awkward, that the whole idea will seem out of place. That she will make a mistake that will cause Steven to reconsider, and it scares her the most, because, above everything else, she wants to try and build something stable with him.

Holding her breath, she opens her eyes.

Steven is smiling at her.

"Good morning."

"Hey." Shepard blinks in the artificial daylight, then closes her eyes for a moment. She feels Steven's lips planting a soft kiss on her right, then left eyelid.

"I missed them," he says.

Shepard reopens her eyes, looking up at him. His fingers are tracing vague patterns on her cheek. This – being so close to him, his easy tenderness, and the overall air of intimacy hovering over crumpled sheets – this all feels so right.

"You were always so strong, so spirited. To see that all dimmed... But then again, maybe you were even stronger then."

"I wasn't helpless," she protest. She certainly did not expect him to get so serious, but as long as it is just talking, everything is fine. She can deal with talking.

"I've never said that. But..." He pauses. "You've always been great at pulling up the hero's face. And then your started to drop the mask a little."

"A little?"

"On Gagarin, I saw an exhausted woman, tired of fighting and being a hero. But never broken, not truly."

"Sometimes... Sometimes I think you know me better than I know myself. Is that how it's supposed to be?"

"I've been there. Not through nearly as much as you, not through exactly similar things, but I remember being there. It didn't take much to guess the rest."

She shakes her head. "I must've been truly blind, then. All I saw was the usual confident Admiral."

"I was confident because someone had to be. Most of the time, that's how it works." He smiles at her gently. "You seem more comfortable now."

"Getting used to having you beside me." She gives him a look, and he leans over to kiss her.

"Time to get up."

"You're leaving again today, aren't you?"

"Yes. Comes with being the Fleet Admiral."

"For how long?"

"A week. I won't have much time, but if you'd like to talk, just call."

"Okay." She smiles. "Remember to miss me."

Steven smiles back at her. He gets up, then offers her a hand. "Come on. We'll be late."

She lets him help her get up, welcoming the attention precisely because she does not need it. It is a courtesy, a gesture of affection, and, surprisingly, she likes it. Then she takes a look at Steven and bursts into laughter. As he brought nothing with him, she had to find him something to sleep in, the only fitting clothes being an old washed T-shirt and shorts. And seeing Admiral Hackett – oh, she thinks of him as Steven all right, it is just impossible to forget he is the Fleet Admiral, and it is also impossible to overlook all the times she has seen him all buttoned up and official – and now seeing him in shorts is so out of place it is plain hilarious.

"I fail to see what's so amusing," he scolds, but there is that humorous twinkle to his eyes.

"Nothing... it's nothing..." She is still giggling, covering her mouth with her hand.

Steven smiles. "It's good to see you like that."

"Like that?"

"Laughing. Happy."

She is the first to move, resting her head on his shoulder and putting her arms around his waist in a goodbye hug. "I am happy," she breaths, realising that this is it. She _is_ happy.

...

Shepard wraps herself in a towel – a real, big, fluffy towel, currently one of her most prized possessions – and walks out of the bathroom. Clothing can wait, right now she needs another coffee.

She walks in, damp feet padding softly against the floor, and stops, because Steven has not left yet, standing by the table and talking to someone via his omni-tool, meanwhile trying to finish drinking his coffee. He disconnects, looks up towards her and freezes momentarily. Then he walks over to her, trying very hard to keep from smiling.

"Tease," he mutters, hand brushing her waist as he leans over to kiss her cheek.

He is tender and reliable as always, but something is amiss. Shepard feels too self-conscious, suddenly all too aware that underneath the towel she is completely naked, and... Yesterday, she thought she was ready to lie with him, and now the thought of being so exposed – how does it happen she even comes up with such a word, after that level of intimacy they reached this very morning? But she is uncomfortable, because this body still does not feel like hers. While she is clothed, she is just herself, Shepard, Theresa, but now with only the towel covering her she cannot find that unity with her body.

"Theresa?" Hackett asks, sensing the sudden reserve in her.

"It's..." She looks aside, eyes low, unable to meet his gaze, because her apprehension seems so damn foolish. Then she takes a deep breath. "My body doesn't feel my own. Still. I thought I got over that long ago, but..." Her hand is on his arm, but she is not certain whether she wants to pull him closer or push him away. "I'm sorry, Steve." She says, not entirely sure what she is sorry for, then tries to move away, but he stops her.

"Theresa, look at me," he says quietly, his voice so infinitely calm it somehow manages to calm her a little.

She complies, glancing at him uncertainly.

"If you feel this..." His hand gently touches her arm. "And this..." Fingers brush along her collarbone lightly. "And this..." His hands move to where hers are holding the towel to her chest, and for a moment she is torn between the urge to run away and the desperate need for someone to tell or show her that everything is fine.

Her hand reaches out, as if of its own volition, fingers moving along the tiny chain at his uniform, and she holds her breath, in fear and anticipation in equal measure. Hackett only loosens the towel around her, allowing it to slide down her back a little, but respecting that last border of privacy and leaving her covered. His hand touches her shoulder, then moves down to the small of her back, warm and gentle against her skin, and then ventures up again, his eyes never leaving her face. She is still clutching the towel to her chest, and his palm covers hers.

"If you feel all this, it _is _your body," he says, voice low but definite.

Oh, she feels it: heat lingering wherever his hands touched her skin, her heartbeat quickening, and the longing to just pull him to her and forget the world, but is that her answer? "It still doesn't feel like it," she whispers. Then she meets his eyes, and she can see he is honest. So when having to choose between her own tangled feelings and his faith, she chooses to trust him. "But I believe you."

His hands cup her face as he kisses her, very gently. When she does not push him away he leans towards her again, and his kiss is a _very_ elaborate promise. "How am I supposed to focus on politics now, mhm?" he asks, trying to lighten the mood.

"Oh, you'll do. Obligations first, I know you that much." She smiles, forcing the anxiety down; his trust is something she can rely on. "Wasn't planning that. But now I'm sure you'll miss me."

"You won't even notice I'm gone."

"I will. My bed will be cold."

"Ah, so you're using me as a heating unit?" he remarks, and she cannot keep from laughing.

...

For the whole day, she cannot concentrate on anything, thinking of that one scene over and over again. Damn, she has thought she was over that, has thought that again and again, up until this morning she was certain. No more of this, she decides. Dammit, no more, ever, she will find a way to finally get past this.

Shepard suddenly discovers she will not be able to do that alone. For years, she has been the stronger one for so many; now her strength is all used up and it is so damn frustrating...

She glances at the comm. Just one move, it requires but one move to ask. And here she thought she has already learned admitting she has weaknesses.

With a decisive move she pushes the button, and in a moment Steven's silhouette appears before her. His hair is tousled from sleep, he is wearing an old shirt instead of his uniform, and that instantly makes her feel better and more at ease, because it is _her_ Steven. He has never disappointed her so far. He will not do so now.

"Steve. Hey."

"Theresa?" his voice is even, but there is an audible note of concern. "Everything all right?"

"Fine. Well, better that in the morning. Well, at least I hope so."

"Easy, easy there." He pauses, watching her closely. "Listen, Theresa, you don't have to..."

"Steve, no," she interrupts, feeling so afraid that if she does not do something this very second, she will not muster enough courage to speak. "If we don't talk now, I won't be able to talk about it at all. Ever. It's... I... Oh, dammit! I've forgotten about that. I hoped I'm past that. Turns out I'm not." Shepard shakes her head, her lips crooking into a contemptuous smile. "How did you know?" she asks finally, unable to think of anything better to say. "You _knew_, didn't you?"

"Memory for details. You've mentioned it once, and never spoke about it since. Figured out you'd tell me something that important."

She looks up at him. "So when you said we should wait..."

"I meant what I said. But yes, I had more in mind."

"Damn, Steve, couldn't you just tell me?"

"You'd have said everything is fine, while it wasn't, and we'd have only made it worse. You had to notice that yourself," he explains quietly. "If you feel I wronged you somehow by that, I'm sorry."

"Don't be." She swallows, closing her eyes. "Don't be. You're right. God, I'm such a mess..."

"Don't ever say that again."

Their eyes meet. Quantum gives everything a bluish hue, everything but his eyes, which remain in their natural colour. When she focuses on his eyes, it feels as if he really was here with her.

"Steve," she begins, almost in a whisper. "Move in with me."

"You're sure?"

She is not sure, and not sure she ever will be. But with her apartment being practically empty, except for the simplest furnishing and her very few possessions, she feels lonely. And she is damn tired of being alone. "We'll barely even see each other, with you being away so often."

"Yes, but..." He pauses. "Theresa, I don't want to pressure you into anything. Take your time."

"You... mean it, don't you? Us? For serious?"

"Yes." The answer is decisive.

"I..." again, she is at a loss. She has feelings for him, she wants to be with him... It is just she is not certain she can promise anything, because she has never been there. "I want to be honest with you. I can't promise anything, because... I don't know how it is. But I want to try. With you."

Hackett smiles, and there is this soft look in his eyes. "Can't really say no to that."

"Steve, be serious."

"I _am_ serious. I thought you'd notice by now."

"Steven!"

"Theresa, I know what I've signed for, okay? I know things might get rocky. But we'll work it out, eventually."

"You think so?"

He shakes his head lightly. "What happened to that fearless woman I remember?"

"I've been taught how to fight, for years. I've never been taught... this," she finishes, helplessly. She would like to bury her face against his neck, for him to hold her, she would like something more substantial than just his voice and a holo-projected ghost. He is right. What is happening to her? Why is she so unsure of everything, why suddenly so emotional?

"We'll work this out," he repeats. "Trust me?"

Shepard nods. Trust, there she is on firm ground again. She does trust him, like she trusts herself, or maybe even more. "So?" she asks quietly. "Will you live with me?"

"Of course," he answers, making it sound like the most natural thing in the world.


	14. Spacetime

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and especially for the reviews. They're always welcome :)

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, **Janka**, who took care of this chapter.

* * *

**...**

**Spacetime**

**...**

When she comes back to her apartment after a few hours at Grissom, Steven is already there, having returned from his journey. Well, it must be Steven, because he is the only one except her to have the access code to her quarters. There are soft tinkling noises coming from the kitchen, clinking of metal against metal, and she guesses he is making coffee, and probably puts the cups on the little table.

As Shepard walks across the room, she notices some Steven's possessions among her own, and it is plain baffling how big a difference can such a small change make. He managed to unpack before her return, and it feels as if all the things have always been there. As if _he_ has always been there, living with her.

She enters the kitchen quietly, but from the way Steven's lips quirk into a smile she knows he is aware of her presence.

"How's Eden Prime doing?"

"Good. First food supply scheduled for next week. Speaking of food: I brought you something," he says, uncovering a small container.

"Dear God, the smell..." Upon leaving Grissom, she was not hungry. She is now. Whatever it is Steven brought her, it smells heavenly. She remembers the smell, a vague memory from her past: light dancing on the table surface, her grandmother's colourful striped apron, a gush of warm air from the oven.

"Bread." He smiles at her briefly. "And butter. And that tiny jar over there is honey."

Shepard blinks, but everything is still there, so she is not dreaming. This is... These are simple things, things she remembers from those proverbial better times. This is like discovering a long forgotten world, one where it was possible for her to feel safe and happy.

When she looks up at Steven, he is smiling down at her, his gaze soft.

"Steve, you're a treasure." She pecks him on the cheek, trying to hide the fact she is moved by his simple gift.

"I also brought the last bottle of wine I had on _Terra_."

"Oh, it's a date?" she asks, moving closer to him.

"Housewarming party," he replies. At seeing her frown, he laughs. "I'm sleeping in your bed. So, a date is a must."

...

It is most certainly one of the strangest dates she has ever been on. There are a few slices of bread – not too many, after months of eating nutrition paste and then wafers, one has to be cautious with regular food. Shepard is sure nothing has ever tasted better than this, and the honey trickling down the spoon has to be one of the most beautiful sights in her life.

Steven is laughing at her when she tells him that.

"It's just food," he says. "But yes, I think I can understand."

"It feels so familiar," she mumbles, loud enough for him to catch it.

"What?"

"I... don't know. Everything." She shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"No." The look in his eyes is tender, warm. "Not really. Not while everything's all right."

The comm beeps, signalling an incoming call. Theresa glances at Steven and they exchange a look – it really is impossible to get anything done in peace. Maybe Commander Shepard or Admiral Hackett could pull it off once in a while, but both combined – there is no chance.

Shepard rushes into the living room to get the call.

"Shepard." It is Miranda, dressed in Alliance blues. She is not wearing a uniform, just her standard suit, with a small Alliance logo stitched on."Just called to tell you they're opening the bar tomorrow. So, surprise, surprise, when T'Soni and Vakarian arrive, we can go out for a drink."

"Sounds good."

"It's settled, then." There is a muffled signal of another comm, and Miranda looks up momentarily. "Sorry, have to go. I'm helping with transport planning right now, and Hackett will have my head if I'm late with it. So long, Shepard."

"For the record: I would just reprimand her," Steven says. He is standing on the kitchen threshold, leaning against the doorframe.

"It is _very_ impolite to eavesdrop," Shepard lectures, turning the comm off. Whatever business anyone might have to do with her, it will wait for tomorrow.

"It is _very_ impossible not to overhear anything in this tight appartment of yours. You might want to apply for bigger quarters."

"We could also move to your place, you know. Should be more comfortable, with you being the Fleet Admiral and everything..."

"Gave my rooms up. Seemed the logical thing to do, since I'm spending most of my time aboard the _Normandy_."

"Fine, fine." Shepard smiles up at him. "Any chance you've already opened the wine?"

"Yes. By the way, be careful with those drinks you're planning."

"Oh, sure, laugh at me."

When she comes closer, he puts an arm around her, and she leans against him. It still catches her off guard sometimes how easily such everyday displays of affection come to her. It is even more amazing how her body seems to fit against his.

"I'm glad you'll finally meet at least some of your friends," he says, dropping a kiss onto her hair.

Shepard's hand finds his. She is still afraid to voice it, even in jest, but she thinks that she is even more glad of having him here beside her.

...

Later in the evening Steven is sitting at the desk, working on something, but now and again she catches him glancing up at her.

"Need a break?" she asks, patting the free space on the sofa, right next to her.

"Not yet."

"You're positively infuriating, you know that?"

"It'd be difficult to forget, since you're reminding me of it on a regular basis." But he smiles at her all the same, gets up and walks over to her.

"Your home city?" he asks, his finger hovering briefly over the holo screen of her datapad.

The screen is displaying a photo of a cityscape at night: rooftops, chimneys, a hint of smoke somewhere in the corner, and lights of countless windows. There are no stars visible, and the sky is that peculiar shade between violet, rosy pink and yellow, so typical of big cities where lights never go down.

"I used to sit there, you know," she murmurs, pointing somewhere right beyond the frame. "Right there."

Hackett leans over her shoulder to take a closer look. "Best seats in the house."

Shepard moves her head and their cheeks are almost touching. Almost, not quite, but she can feel the warmth of his skin on hers.

"I used to sneak there whenever I could and try to get to the rooftop. And then sit there, sometimes for hours. It was... another world. Up there, I felt I could be myself, though I didn't yet know who that was. Kept thinking of all the stars and systems I've seen on the net. It was... well, a bit pathetic, I suppose, but I was only a teen. Searching for my breath of freedom, I guess."

His hand squeezes her shoulder gently. "Thank you."

That genuinely puzzles her. "For what?"

"Telling me."

"Oh... But..." There is nothing to thank for, at least she feels so. But since Steven seems to have a different opinion on the matter, she does not mention it. "Well... You could always tell me something in return, mhm?"

"Not much to tell. Had my nose in one book or another for most of my teenage years." There was something in his voice; nothing clear or evident, just vague something.

"Steve? There's more to it, right?"

"Yes. I'll tell you one day, promise. Just... It's been too long. And it seems very foolish now."

She laughs a bit. "Just like my old nickname."

"You know, 'Terri' doesn't sound so terrible when you think of it."

"How so?"

"Sounds like a diminutive of 'Terra', doesn't it?" He smiles lightly. "Little Earth," he adds quietly, in a warm tone.

Shepard swallows. Up until now, she has always thought herself immune to this, and using pet names still seems idiotic for her... And she knows he will not do this on a regular basis, because neither of them is that kind of person. But the way he says it, his voice between amused and tender, makes it touching. And damn, it is touching her far too deeply. "Dammit, Steve, stop. Stop doing that!"

"I'm sorry... Doing what exactly?"

"Being so damn poetic!"

"I'm not poetic, just observant. And..."

"Steve, don't..." She looks down, suddenly embarrassed, and furious at herself for this.

"Theresa, what is it?"

"The way you talk of me sometimes... I can't pay back, Steve. I'm no good with words. So please, just..."

He walks around the sofa, then leans towards her, takes her chin in his hand and gently motions her to face him. "I know what I've signed for, right? So no more of this melodrama."

Shepard looks up at him, meeting his eyes questioningly. He holds her gaze steadily, and it is exactly the kind of answer she needs. She pulls him to her, but instead of kissing him just rests her forehead against his.

"See?" he asks, settling on the sofa beside her. "That's fine payback for me," he adds as she nestles against him.

...

Life with Steven is comfortable and so beautifully easy, except for the times when it is not. It is fine with her when he has to leave for weeks to assess the progress of one or another project, to run a routine defence check, to organize escort for one or another team of scientist and explorers, or to argue with the Council, infuriating them artfully simply by being his endlessly calm self. It is fine with her when he does not return at night because of an emergency.

It is anything but fine when he wakes from a nightmare in the middle of the night and will not talk to her. He is sitting, leaning against the wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, teeth gritted. Making no sound other than breathing.

"Steve?"

He half-opens his eyes. "Can it wait?"

"Steve, what is it?" Whatever it is, it has to be important; she has never seen him like this, has never had an impression he was so distant as he seems now.

He does not reply.

"Steve?" Shepard is not going to back down. She _will_ get it out of him. "Steven, talk to me, dammit!"

"Arcturus." His voice is hollow, so quiet she can barely hear it.

Shepard curses inwardly. Damn, she should have guessed, she knows him, dammit! It is just that never before has she seen him so broken. Never. She inhales deeply, trying to find the right words, aware the effort is futile. What he needs is presence, and comfort of someone's touch, not words, but he will not let her provide him with that. "Steve," she says very softly, a tone she has never used before, even with him. "Stop beating yourself over that. You did all you could."

"It wasn't enough." It seems to pain him more now than it used to then, but this she can understand: now he has time to truly think about it.

"Steven, please."

"It does not fade. Only gets sharper."

"Stop blaming yourself."

"How can I, when that damn station reminds me of it all the time?"

She cannot take it anymore, she does not want to take it. He looks as if he has barely slept while being away for the last week – which is probably true, judging by the messages left on her comm. And damn, if it has been the same nightmare all that time, it is high time it ended. "Then why did you order to rebuild this bloody station here?"

"Because people need a symbol."

_Maybe they do_, she thinks, _but you need sleep, Steve_. She will not let him pay the cost over and over, just as he did not let her. Because, dammit, it is not right! "Screw people and the bloody symbol, and this goddamn station that only gives you nightmares!"

Without a word, he makes a move to get up. She can see the tight set of his jaw, and the single muscle twitching in his cheek. He is not just angry, he is furious, and his outer calm is terrifying. He turns, sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to get up and go.

"Hackett, don't you dare leave!"

He stops mid-motion. He takes a breath, and when he lets the air out all the rage evaporates, leaving only exhaustion marked clearly on his face by the shadows under his eyes.

A wave of emotions chokes her. "Steve, I'm sorry... So sorry..."

He meets her gaze and holds it. "_I_ am sorry, Theresa," he says gravely. "I shouldn't have... It's not your fault."

"Neither it's yours," she says decisively, meaning both his quiet outburst and his remorse over Arcturus. She reaches out, and in a blink of an eye he holds her tightly to him. His kiss is bruising; passion and despair in equal measures. Now she understands why he refused her back then on Gagarin; it is not supposed to be like that. Later, maybe, shall he need it, or shall she need it, yes, but not the first step, no, this is not right.

Shepard pulls away, as delicately as she can, only to put her arms around him and hold him, hands stroking his head and rubbing his back gently in slow, soothing motions. He buries his face against her hair and clings to her.

"I am sorry, Theresa," he repeats.

"Steve..." She says, then hesitates briefly, because his name does not seem enough. She has often comforted someone, but how is she supposed to find right words seeing _him_ like this? God, she remembers how after Arcturus his voice did not even waver. In her mind, he has always been a picture of an infallible leader, and to see him so broken... He is as much human as she is, and it is only natural even his endurance must have an end... But nothing could have ever prepared her for _this_. "Steve, dearest, please, give it a rest. We let emotions get the better of us, it happens, we're sorry, it's all right. It's all right."

"Theresa, I'm not a child. I don't need..."

"Steven Hackett, shut up and listen to me. How long has it been since you've shared your troubles with anyone?"

"Long." He pulls her even closer against him, and it does not seem to be entirely out of need for comfort. "But not that long."

"I'm not letting it drop, not this time." She cannot help a little sigh as he kisses her neck. "And don't try to divert my attention..." She shudders as his lips touch the hollow of her throat. "Steve, don't... Talk to me, all right? Steven, if you don't stop right now I'll have to get you out of your clothes, and weren't you the one who once told me it's not the right solution?"

"Yes, I remember. Damn too well." He rests his forehead against hers. "No, you're right." He takes a deeper breath and lets it out with a sigh. "It's... damn it."

"It backfires if you try to hold it back for too long," she says quietly, recalling her own breakdown that fateful night on Gagarin. "So don't ever do it again, okay?"

"Only if you promise to do the same."

She looks up into his eyes and smiles at him encouragingly. "Promise."

"Very well. Promise."

"So... Let's try to get some sleep, Steve, mhm?"

"I won't fall asleep yet." Regardless, following her example, he settles down onto the pillows. "Can we talk for a moment longer?"

"About?" She leans on her elbow, her other hand idly wandering across his chest.

"The past, times you used to be Terri, or earlier? Your childhood dreams? Something happy. Anything."

Shepard smiles again. "Terri used to pine for a commander from one of those very old sci-fi series. He quoted Tennyson, too."

"Does that mean I'll have to learn some Tennyson by heart? Have mercy." He makes an effort to small-talk, and somehow that lifts his spirits a little.

"No, I don't think so. Mhm. No."

"Are you absolutely sure? I still remember that one quote, should you change your mind."

"And here I've never thought you're a romantic..."

"I'm not. Not the roses and poetry type, anyway. But everyone needs words from time to time, and the woman I love certainly deserves them."

Shepard goes still, marvelling at the simplicity with which he said it. No one has ever said it to her before, not like that, not that plainly, not that straightforwardly. Not that sincerely.

"Steven Hackett, have you just said..."

His eyes light up, that twinkle back to them again. "You've heard. Unless everything I say has to end with the 'Hackett out' phrase to be valid."

Shepard laughs out loud. "Likewise," she says softly.

"Theresa, I've told you already, I don't want declarations yet..."

"You're a decent liar, Steve, but not that good."

"Eh, caught red-handed..."

Her hand cups his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Tell me."

"What?"

"The truth, Steven."

He sighs. "Fine. I _do_ want a declaration, I _do_ want to know this is going somewhere."

"We've just worked through a major crisis. I'd say I know where this is go-..." she stifles a yawn. "Going. Sorry, Steve, I'm dog tired."

"Let's go to sleep, then," he says with a smile. "Just wanted to see your reaction."

"Steven, dammit... But I wouldn't mind if you were to keep annoying me for, let's say, a few years. Or a dozen. Or..."

He gathers her in his arms. "Sleep, Theresa." Maybe he is right, interrupting her like that. It is too early to speak of ever after.

Shepard does not, in general, believe in bad luck, but she would not like to risk it any way. This thing they have with Steven – by far, it is one of the best that ever happened in her life.

"Mhm..." is all her answer, as she curls up against him. Last thing she feels before falling asleep is the soft touch of his hand stroking her hair.

...

There are many daily duties, as the planned date of re-opening Grissom Academy is approaching quickly, and Shepard concentrates on her work, trying to do her best. But after returning to her quarters, and eating dinner over yet another book, she often thinks how odd it is that everything seems to be passing by her in a blur. Everything but evenings, nights and mornings, and she wonders how could it be that her world dilates to one tiny space: her room, her bed. To a single point: learning to live with Steven. Once and again, she catches herself waiting – she used to wait for his visits at first, and then, after he moved in with her, for his returns.

This is all new to her: safety, having so much time for leisure, actually having time to fall in love and experience the process day by day, building the relationship slowly. How she grows to anticipate the moment when she turns towards the door with a smile and he is there, or waiting until his hands are on her shoulders, and he mutters a warm welcome in her ear. This, in all probability, will not last forever, and the haze will fade. But Shepard never doubts what they have is more than mere infatuation, firmer, solid. Friendship, respect, that trust that has kept her sane in her most difficult moments, and understanding... She is not quite certain if this is how love is supposed to be, but hells, does the name really matter when what they have makes everything easier, because they can walk through it together?

They are both learning. To share their private space with another – though it is much more difficult for her, and she figures out he has been there before. She does not ask, but one evening when they are sitting side by side, reading, he discards the datapad and starts talking quietly. She has no choice but to do the same. It is difficult, but when Steven says that they will leave it all behind them, for it is only about him and her now, she knows it was worth it.

They are learning to talk, and to be silent together, to work and spend free time, to fall asleep and wake up together, and thousands other tiny little details that add up to a shared life.

They are also learning to discern each other's nightmares by the way they wake up in the middle of the night. With Relay 314 and Shanxi, he brings his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, and after a moment he is back his collected self – the First Contact War was long ago, and he has learnt to deal with it since. With the Battle of Earth, what wakes her are his arms tightening around her body as he holds her to him, pressing his lips to her hair, and she strokes his face, whispering 'I am here' over and over, until his breathing comes back to normal.

With Alchera, she wakes up gasping for breath, to find he is already holding her, and slowly the dream begins to end not with falling into a hell of pain and flames, but landing safely in his arms – or maybe it is the movement of his arms encircling her that wakes her up. With scenes from the war, she clings to him, burrowing her face against his chest or neck, and he murmurs soothingly into her ear, most often repeating the 'brave girl' phrase. With the Citadel, she is lying completely still, eyes closed and tears slowly flowing down her cheeks, and he brushes the tears away, pulls her to him gently and says a quiet, iron-firm 'I'm with you', and when she opens her eyes to look at him he kisses her softly, then presses a lingering kiss to her temple, and she falls asleep again, feeling safe.

...

There is time for sharing stories, funny and serious and emotional, as well as simple memories. There is also time for sharing battle tales, written across their bodies in scars.

She already knows the scar on his cheek is a reminder of his first assignment, and she lets her fingers trace it gently. She then brushes a faint scar on the left side of his nose.

"Relay 314," he explains curtly. "We got shot, a console exploded the Captain into face. I just got minor scratches."

There is another faint line beginning at his collarbone, and she traces that one, too.

"Shanxi."

"There are more, aren't there?" she asks, her hands moving from his skin to the buttons of his shirt.

"Yes."

As he lets her undo his shirt, Shepard thinks that _this_ is trust. Her fingers follow the lines of the scars, gently, but she does not cross the line they set, not now, now is not the time. Now is the time for war stories, that should be told just like this. When she glances up, at his face, light reflects in his eyes, but he makes no move, just allows her to read him, at her own pace.

It astonishes her how easy it seems all of a sudden, just being close like that. Yes, she wants more, certainly, but she is learning trust is more than granting a permission to move closer, close enough to share a bed at night. She discovers there are more ways to express trust on such a personal level, surprised it comes so easily just to write 'I care for you' across his skin with simple, tender touches that have very little to do with desire.

She traces another scar, one beginning at his side and continuing down towards the hip. Her fingers follow, dipping beneath his clothing, her touch soft, light. She waits for him to stop her, but he does not, just watches her quietly. Suddenly she is certain that should she wants more, he would not stop her, because he wants that just as much, but there are things she must discover and learn herself, so he gives her time. Shepard leans over and kisses the corner of his lips lightly, feeling him smile. Sometimes, like now, she thinks he knows her better than she knows herself. She withdraws her hand, but without hurry.

"Just scars," he mutters. "Not very different from yours."

"I don't have much of my own, after Cerberus. Oh, don't fret, this doesn't bother me... all that much. Not any longer."

"You got the one on your cheek back." His palm cups her cheek as his thumb follows the pale line of the scar.

"Yeah. Got this one almost right."

"There's one missing. Here." His finger brushes across her lips, where the scar used to be, and then he kisses the spot gently.

"And another one here." She points at her wrist, drawing an invisible line, and again his lips ghost over her skin.

She continues, this time pointing to her shoulder and again his lips follow her sign. When she indicates her ribs he rolls her top up and his hand trails the line her finger draws, his skin warm against hers.

Shepard touches his temple, hand sliding down to rest on his cheek. "Others... should wait?" she half-asks, briefly pointing at her hipbone.

"For later." He puts his hand there, tenderly, but there is more to this touch.

She meets his eyes, then covers his palm with hers. "My rehab is long over," she says, reminding him of their agreement.

"I know," he responds quietly.

She ponders on this for a while. He is leaving the decision to her... and she is beginning to understand. "Does it ever seem like the time is right?" She grimaces. "It never has, to me. Not truly."

He smiles. "You'd be surprised."

"Oh, don't you patronise me."

"I'm not. You certainly don't need that."

Shepard sighs. "Everything as planned with your trip to Sur'Kesh?"

"Trip? Very funny. Yes, everything's as planned. I'm taking off tomorrow. Doctor Solus is coming with us."

"God, I'll miss him. But he's earned his retirement."

"He's not retiring. I thought you knew," he adds, reading surprise on her face. "He said he's planning to run some tests there. Mentioned something about sea?"

"Oh. That." Shepard smiles sadly. "Tests on seashells. I... I think he won't come back, Steve."

He puts an arm around her.

"I'm fine. Just... He's a friend. But don't worry, I can cope."

"It doesn't make it hurt less."

"Steve, stop. Please." She moves away, because if she keeps feeling his warm presence beside her, she will crumble, and dammit, not now. No grieving for friends who are still alive! But she cannot get rid of the thought that even though the war is over, the goodbyes are not, and despite the fact she knows that is the course of life, it is hard.

"Theresa?"

"Don't... Please. Don't touch me. Not right now." Her lips twist into a bitter smile. "We've been there already. You know how it'll end."

He reaches out for her anyway, and as his hands touch her shoulders she gives in, curling into him, shifting to be as close as she only can, hiding her face against his neck. Shepard bites her lip as he strokes her head tenderly.

"It's not a crime to feel," he mutters.

"Look who's talking," she retorts, and her voice almost does not waver.

"You're not on duty, Theresa. You don't have to be so guarded."

Shepard opens her mouth to protest, but no words come out as she realises he is right. She is so used to always being the tough one that she still perceives displaying feelings as weakness, and the prospect of anyone seeing her like that is scary. But... he has seen her like that, and never thought less of her, as she has never thought less of him in similar circumstances. Still, she is reluctant to speak of her feelings, for no sensible reason at all.

"Steve?" she whispers, suddenly at a loss. He can comfort her, but she is not certain how to ask. Up until now, he has always done that before she voiced anything. This is the next step; he is not the only one who has to learn to talk on some topics.

Even though the silence stretches out, he makes no move. Finally, he sighs quietly. "Theresa, if you really want me to go and leave you alone for now, I will."

"Don't!" The intensity of her voice surprises her even more than him. "Don't."

"Fine," he whispers, and it is a promise.

"Hold me?" she breaths out finally, her voice coming through so tiny she barely recognises it.

He does, careful, soothing, too gentle for her, because she is still not used to it. Shepard pulls him to her, her lips searching for his frantically. The deadline they agreed upon is past, but to move further now would be too early; it is almost the right time, but a hairbreadth away from it still, so she does not cross the boundaries set by clothing, and neither does he. But she needs to feel his body against hers as he leans over for another deep kiss, needs his arms to hold her to him, needs him to refocus her world onto him. She realises she does not want him to go, but knows he will go regardless, because he has to, and she would do the same. But before he will go, he can help her remember she is alive... and that it is a good thing, she thinks as she calms down and tumbles into sleep, safe and warm and _alive_ in his arms though all he does is holding her.

...

"Don't go," she says, half in joke, still very sleepy. She is used to getting up early, but this is too early even for her.

"You know I have to, right?" He sits, the blanket pooling at his waist.

Shepard forces her eyes to open and glances up at him: his hair tousled from sleep, his face softer than his usual daily expression. "Five minutes more?" she asks, because she loves him like that, dishevelled and slightly untidy, the Steven Hackett that – she feels – belongs solely to her .

"Five minutes it is." He smiles at her, amused, letting her pull him close. "Never thought you're so, well, cuddly."

"What?!" She smothers the laughter into his shirt. "I'm not!"

"But?" he prompts.

"But... I like being close to you. Helps me relax."

"I'm not going to be away forever, you know."

"Now you're making fun of me. Of course I know. Just saying."

"Isn't it boring for you? Quiet life?"

"Very calm. Much more than what I'm used to. But... I like it, I think. I get up in the morning and can sit over my coffee for half an hour sometimes, reading. That... feels weird. But nice. And, of course, there's a certain Admiral..."

"Watch out, you'll grow into a flirt," he jokes.

"As if that was possible." She relaxes in his embrace, her mind still half-floating in the warm haze of sleep.

"Come on, sleepyhead. We'll eat breakfast together."

Shepard half-opens her eyes to give him a look speaking clearly his current state of mind leaves much to be desired. "Not hungry."

"I'll make coffee."

She sighs, knowing this battle is lost already, because no matter how tired she will be later, she is going to have that breakfast with him. "You know how to tempt a woman."

...

Liara keeps to her word, and when she arrives at Arcturus, Garrus is with her. It turns out Miranda has some free time on her hands, too, and decides to join them. So they all are now sitting at a table in what is currently the only club on Arcturus, sipping drinks.

Shepard smiles when she glances at the club name, _Zocalo_, written in fancy lettering over the menu – well, the list of planned drinks, mostly, until the owners get their hands on some more substantial alcohol supplies. The name, along with the music played here, some old rock songs which titles she does not remember – but her foot seems to have better memory, as it is tapping quietly to the rhythm – it all brings back memories. Her youth was rarely happy, but those few memories are: a haze of music and laughter, and the dim light of the old Reds hideout she remembers is almost the same as the soft light in the club.

"That's one thing that never ceases to amaze me," remarks Liara.

"Music?" Garrus suggests. The music is human, and must be slightly exotic for them both.

"I think she meant resourcefulness in finding alcohol, Garrus," Shepard says.

Miranda eyes her glass suspiciously. "Salarian. Didn't know they had alcohol."

"Yeah, of course. Every sentient species has. One of the laws of the universe," says Garrus, with absolute conviction, only to grin a moment later. "What is it?" he asks, turning his attention to the music.

"It's..." Shepard concentrates. "Damn, I know this... An old friend of mine used to listen to this..."

Garrus cocks his head to the side, listening. "Nice." He decides, his attention back on his drink.

"Dammit, I don't remember the name. Something beginning with "Spring". Twentieth-century rock, or something."

"Interesting." Liara glances at the scene. "A turian, an asari, a drell and a hanar, singing human songs."

"Oh, come on, a hanar on percussion? Logical," arguments Garrus.

"Yeah." Shepard, too, finds it somehow amusing. "They're just lacking an elcor and a volus on the team."

Miranda gives a measured smile. "Actually, they have a volus manager."

Garrus chokes on his drink, and eventually Liara has to help him using a biotic kick.

"Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome. Care for a dance?"

"Well, can't really refuse you now, right?" Garrus grins.

Miranda waits until they are off on the dancefloor. She takes a sip of her drink, then turns to Shepard, and there is a question coming.

"So, you and Hackett..." Before Shepard can voice any protest how she does not want to discuss her relationship, Miranda adds: "It's not really possible not to notice he's practically living at your place now. Well, anyway, impossible to overlook when I'm working with him this often. And I've spotted his cap on your desk that last time we talked."

"You're infuriating, you know that?"

"Doing my best." Miranda smiles again, but this time it is genuine, not practiced perfection. "So?"

"Apparently, you know everything already."

"Sorry, Shepard."

"Miranda! Not so loud... Besides, I have a first name, you know."

A young soldier comes over to the table, having caught her name over the noise.

"Whoa, you're Commander Shepard? Really?"

Miranda is quicker to answer, arching her brows in an expression of bored superiority. "Really, kid, has suddenly every red-haired woman turned into Commander Shepard? You've ever even seen her?"

"Hey, I'm pretty sure..."

"You're not the first to ask my friend this question, and I think she's had enough. And I'm fairly certain you're anything butpretty."

Someone laughs in the background, most probably the soldier's colleagues, and he leaves, humiliated.

"No preaching on me being too harsh," Miranda says to Shepard.

"Just wanted to say thanks."

"You're welcome." Miranda's face softens slightly. "So... Are you happy?"

"I think so."

"Not certain?"

"It's... complicated." Shepard smiles, slightly uncomfortable. "There are some things we must learn."

"I bet. You both like to boss around too much. I'd also bet the negotiations must be interesting."

"No comments on that."

Miranda swirls her drink. "Back before Earth, when I was saying goodbye to you... He was standing nearby, you know? Never even looked. Back then I thought: how stupid. He had to take into account that might have been his last chance to talk to you, and he gave it up, just like that. But after the battle, when we thought you were dead... I understood what an idiot I'd been."

"You knew? All the time?"

"I guessed, back then. If you had been just a soldier to him, he'd have given you one last inspiring line, at least. He never did." She pauses, then smiles, seemingly to her drink. "He's the most damn stubborn man I know. But sincere and honourable." Miranda looks up. "Guess I just wanted to say: good luck. You deserve that... Theresa. You both do."


	15. Gravity

Author's note:

Thanks for the favs, follows and especially for the reviews. They're always welcome :)

Special thanks to my fabulous beta, **Janka**, who took care of this chapter.

* * *

**...**

**Gravity**

**...**

Shepard rolls onto her back, sighing in frustration: sleep does not want to come. The passing week was a blur, as the first part of work at Grissom is slowly coming to an end and the opening semester in the rebuilt academy is going to begin soon. Shepard is at that peculiar point of tired when it is impossible even to fall asleep. She sighs again. Last few days, once she finally falls asleep, the morning comes all too quickly.

The light of her comm blinks invitingly. Well, since she cannot sleep anyway, she might as well answer. She gets herself up, halfway, leaning on her elbow. She tugs the nightshirt down – oversized T-shirts are currently the only things she has, and the wretched thing always rolls up to her waist. Her old PJs are still somewhere on the _Normandy_ – but there are always more important matters at hand than looking for them. As she leans over the comm, tangled hair gets into her eyes, so, swallowing a curse, she pushes the unruly strand back and activates the device.

"Did I wake you up, Theresa?" Steven is smiling at her, that slightest, soft smile capable of dissolving her irritation instantly.

"Couldn't sleep anyway. Something happened?"

"Just wanted to talk. Couldn't sleep either."

Shepard glances, then smiles. It never ceases to amaze her how quickly they have fallen into the routine of calling the other every time they want to chat the sleeplessness away. She looks at him again, more attentively: he is without his cap or uniform jacket, the first three buttons of his shirt undone and even though she had seen him wearing less, this still feels intimate. No one else sees him like this, no one but her.

Shepard inwardly curses the vid comm: she is an engineer, she knows how the blasted thing works. And yet every time she talks with Steven via the holo she has that distinct impression as if he was in the same room – almost, but not quite.

Steven's gaze glides over her: not a quick peek, not a slow assessing stare either. Just a look. As he has said, they both know where things between them are going, eventually.

She smiles mischievously. "Don't stare. All my PJs are still somewhere in the _Normandy_'s cargo hold."

"You can always come over to look for them." Steven's face grows serious. "Would you like to visit the Normandy after I return?" he asks, in a quiet tone indicating clearly he means something else entirely, and they both know it.

Shepard looks into his eyes. "Yes," she answers slowly.

He holds her gaze. "I'll be there tomorrow, Theresa." There is something about the way he says her name... She cannot quite pinpoint it, but it feels as if he was able to put everything that is and has ever been between them into that single word. He never uses any diminutives of her name, but the way he says it sometimes sounds like it is a confession of feelings.

"See you tomorrow, then?" She keeps her tone level, but asking this trivial question so loaded with meaning fills her with a sense of exhilaration.

"I'll turn the comm off this time."

He probably will not, and Shepard expects no less from him. "Of course."

"So little faith in me?" he asks, with that twinkle to his eyes which appears there whenever he is jesting.

"So _much_ faith in you," she corrects, smiling at him fondly.

"You should get some rest. Sorry for keeping you up so late."

"Do you know, Steven, that there's only one phrase you use more often than suggesting I should rest?"

"Which one?"

"Does 'Hackett out' ring a bell?"

"Ah, that."

"Steve..."

"Get some sleep, Theresa."

"Hackett, don't you patronise me. I'm an adult, you know."

"Most fortunate."

She laughs; it is not really possible to chastise him any longer after such a comment.

He offers one last brief smile before ending the call. "See you tomorrow. Hackett out," he adds after a moment, a slight smirk on his lips."

...

In the morning, she looks into the mirror. Her hair is longer, reaching well past her shoulders, which does not go well with her face no matter whether she ties it up or leaves it loose. She needs to do something about it.

With a shade of amusement she notes that the make-up kit Miranda left her – a humorous parting cheer-up gift – is probably either on the Normandy too, or no longer exists. Also, not having worn anything even barely resembling a skirt since her teens, she suddenly realises that maybe a dress would be more appropriate for the occasion than her everyday clothes. But the cloth production on Arcturus is still in deficit. Also, the only circumstance when she might look good in a dress is when she would not have to move around in it.

She glances in the mirror again, and suddenly bursts into laughter, shaking so hard she has to lean against the wall for support. Haircut, dress, make-up? Heavens, what do these matter now, what do these matter when he has seen her freshly scarred after Aratoht, when he has seen her walking awkwardly stiff in the med-corset and seen her eyes impaired? None of it mattered to him.

Still, she is going to get that haircut. To remind herself who she used to be... who she still is. Plus, it will not hurt if she looks better. About the clothes... Clothes are less important. At some point of the evening they will have to go away, if she has anything to say on the matter.

...

Steven is waiting for her at the docks. Some crew members are walking past, having got their shore leave, and Shepard expects he will greet her officially. By now, her relationship with Steven is no secret, but people tend to get uncomfortable mentioning anything about it when Admiral Hackett is around.

"Theresa," he says by the way of greeting. Just her name.

A smile flickers on her lips. "Admiral."

They walk together, almost hand in hand, but not quite touching. Touch is not necessary – the connection is tangible anyway.

"You've changed your hair," he remarks.

"Was getting in the way all the time."

"And here I hoped you were trying to seduce me."

She glares at him, not quite believing what she hears. Her fingertips, feather-light, brush his wrist.

"Do I have to, Admiral?" she asks, smiling at him: a slow, playful smile.

"Not really, no. But it's always welcome."

She laughs out loud.

"_Sir?_" It is Joker on the comm. Why is it always the blasted fly-boy on the bloody comm?

Steven answers, in his usual composed, professional tone. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Incoming transmission from the Council. Also, admiral Singh tried to contact you, sir. Told him you're busy with a top-priority state matter."

Steven – apparently amused – glances at the 'top-priority state matter' that is standing right next to him. Then he momentarily focuses on the comm. "Patch the Council through, Lieutenant, I'll be at the QEC shortly. Good job with Singh." He disconnects without waiting for Joker's answer. "I am sorry, Theresa. It'll take but a few minutes, I promise."

"I've been waiting for months. I can handle another few minutes."

...

She is standing by the display of ship models, her fingers brushing along the elegant shape of the first _Normandy_. This used to be her cabin. Now it belongs to him. Some time ago, it would have felt strange to think he has slept and waken in the bed that used to be hers. Now it only feels natural.

Shepard comes down the few steps and glances at the photo on the nightstand; yes, it is exactly the same one she remembers. He did not change a slightest detail in the cabin, except for adding a small pile of datapads on the desk.

The door opens and Steven enters. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

As he takes off his cap and sets it on the desk, and then approaches her, Shepard realises she did not come here for talking _at all_, and that he must be aware of that. They stand by the empty tank, bluish light washing over them: a reflection of that scene from almost two years before. But now, she can see him: the scar across his cheek, all the lines frowns sculpted between his eyebrows. His pale blue eyes, focused on her, and only her. For a moment she entertains the thought that maybe all this time it has been his gaze pulling her towards him.

She reaches up slowly and touches his cheek, her thumb brushing along the scar there, all the way down to his upper lip. His hands brush her arms and come to rest at her waist, and now she can feel them: strong, steady, warm. His touch is gentle, but confident: no hesitation, no uncertainty. Shepard feels his eyes on her, intense, and lets the gravity of his gaze pull her closer.

Her fingers slide down his neck to the collar of his uniform, as his move up to cup her face. She tilts her head up and he leans towards her, both meeting halfway in a kiss. No haste; slow, gentle. Shepard does not believe perfect can exist, but this is damn close.

His lips brush her ear, his beard tickling her jaw as he whispers something incomprehensible against her skin.

"What?"

His smile is millimetres from her face. "Binary star," he repeats.

Scientific romanticism, Shepard thinks, amused. She puts her arms around his neck and he holds her against him as she kisses him breathless. Her hands deftly undo the buttons of his uniform, and when she touches his chest she can feel his warmth through the material of his shirt. His fingers find the zipper of her suit.

They gasp for breath and he leans towards her again, his kiss open-mouthed, languid. His hand moves up her back, and she marvels at the little everyday miracles of physics as his fingers trail electricity along her spine. Her hand slips under his shirt just as his comes to rest at the back of her neck.

"Steven..."

"You have beautiful eyes, Theresa," he whispers, the sound of her name soft like a caress. This single sentence, spoken in such a way, with all the meaning hiding between mere words, leaves her breathless.

"Steven..." she gasps, barely able to find her voice as emotions overwhelm her.

Momentarily, he puts two fingers across her lips to silence her. "You asked me once about morale, remember?" He brushes a strand of hair out of her face. "You are what keeps me going."

She would gladly turn it all into the usual half-joking business, as she used to, but his confession tugs at her mind – she owes him something in return. But saying it aloud – that would diminish the meaning of what she feels. "Steve," she whispers instead, just that, permeating all the emotions into her voice, knowing that he will hear and, like always, understand. Just as he said, they are a binary star, the two of them orbiting around a figurative common centre of mass.

"Theresa?" he asks, a single word, a question, about everything.

Breathing is difficult, but she inhales deeply, plucking up her courage, because saying it is more frightening than fighting Reapers was. She searches for words, but finds only one phrase. It seems fitting, somehow. "I trust you," she breaths, tilting her face up towards him for a kiss and parting her lips – the final answer and an invitation. He complies.

...

Shepard is lying awake, listening to Steven's even breaths right next to her, her gaze wandering over the room. Her cabin, his cabin – like the common centre of mass they are orbiting around. There is much more to it: the war, the struggles, the trust between them; but this room is symbolic. For a time being, it has been like a home for her, and now... it can be home again. Maybe even for the rest of her life. She glances at the man sleeping at her side. He is... Comfortable is not the right word to use in this context, but that is what their relationship is. Secure. Firm.

Her fingertips brush his cheek lightly. _Her_ fingertips – her body finally feels like her own again, as if in the wake of his touch it had dissolved into a supernova, and after that the particles formed anew.

Shepard smiles slightly, remembering his hands, confident but gentle as they were learning the shape of her body, recalling the texture of his skin against hers and the way their bodies fit together, and, heavens, that _look_ in his eyes just before they collapsed onto the pillows, sated and exhausted.

She strokes his hair, keeping the touch feather-light so that it would not wake him, watching his face. She has rarely seen him so peaceful, even in sleep – a new facet to his features. A few hours earlier she has seen yet another unknown expression on his face - a sight she finds would be impossible to forget. Having seen his self-control snap and eventually shatter completely, having seen pure, raw emotion etched in the set of his lips and burning in his eyes... After that, she will never need to hear any words, for the memory of his face will be enough – the most elaborate confession of feelings she has ever witnessed.

She leans over, planting a kiss on his cheek, and he stirs, waking up slowly. When she raises her head, Steven's blue eyes are smiling up at her.

"What are you doing?"

"Watching," she replies, fingertips brushing his collarbone.

"Watching what?"

"You. On my pillow. I could get used to this, you know."

"Used to be your pillow, before you signed you resignation." He corrects, then shifts, gathering her in his arms. "But we can share."

"Speaking of my resignation... Do you think I could hide somewhere and live as a normal human being, not Commander Shepard? Being a hero is so damn overrated. I'm even seriously considering changing my name...

He leans down to kiss her. "Mhm, we can think about that... How does 'Theresa Hackett' sound to you?," he says when their lips part.

She blinks in disbelief, arms still wound around his neck. "Steven?"

"Mhm?"

"Have you just proposed to me?"

"Yes."

"In bed?"

"Yes."

"Are you hoping my current still somehow clouded state of mind will affect my decision?"

"No." His gaze grows serious. "This should be a conscious choice, Theresa. Take your time."

She knows the answer. No one has ever had such a complete trust in her, no one but him. Unwavering. And all those times she thought her responsibilities were too much to bear, he has been there to listen, to support her. Her most loyal ally, her friend, her safe haven. Just as he said, they are a binary star.

She looks up, into his pale eyes, and touches his cheek. "I hope you can arrange a ring."

"I'll think of something. Roses can be a problem, though."

"Fine, no roses."

"You'd like me to do it the old-fashioned way, wouldn't you?"

She grins at him. "Let the chance to see the Fleet Admiral on his knees pass by? Never."

...

When she wakes up, Steven is gone, but there is a datapad on the pillow. A note is blinking on the screen.

— _Make yourself at home. S. _—

Wrapping herself up in the sheet, she gets up. She needs to finish her lecture syllabus and send it to the Academy, but getting some clothes is a priority. On the other hand... Maybe she can just forget Grissom; surely they can make through a single day without her. _Dammit, I earned this one day off_, she thinks, knowing very well that she will set to work first thing after breakfast. Still, fresh clothes would be nice.

She looks into the locker, filled with Steven's clothes, all neatly folded. There is a box behind an even pile of shirts, with its lid askew and half-open, a ribbon hanging over the side. She recognizes the pattern: it is a medal, that Silver Cross for bravery she remembers from his dossier. So he hides all his decorations, just as she used to while she still had them. They bring up too much memories, too many of them painful.

She opens the second compartment and freezes. Her box of medals and orders is there. Her digital photo-frame. And all her clothes, just as she left them. He left it all untouched, waiting for her.

_Oh, Steven..._

She wonders when it has started, and if it could have even been before the war. Someday, she will have to ask him. She can pinpoint the moment _she_ realised her feelings for him went far beyond friendship, but she has no idea when it began. It just... happened, of its own accord, as simply as that. All she knows is how they fit together, the connection so natural it truly feels like gravity: it probably had to begin somewhere, but all that can be said about it is that it _is_.

She brushes her hand along one of the suits. It smells of dust and disuse. She pushes it aside to find a pack of new underwear she remembers should be there, never used and not even opened. As for the clothes, she picks one of Steven's shirts instead. Not like she is going anywhere today.

...

Sometime after a shower, in the middle of the second cup of coffee, she sits down at the desk and sifts through the datapads. Projects, plans, resources, costs. Well, she can at least do something useful while she is at it. Reaching out for one of the nutrition wafers, she starts reviewing the first project.

She spends a few hours like this, occasionally pouring herself more warm coffee from the vacuum flask. Reviewing, correcting, making comments.

Finally she decides she had enough for today and returns to bed. There is a book on the nightstand, and she reaches for it. Toronto 2065 CE, Manswell Press, R. Diwari and L.M. Takashima, _Astrophysics across the ages_. Heavens, an actual paper book... This suits him so, so very much.

She runs her fingers along the letters on the spine of the book, then opens it, brings it to her face and inhales. It smells of old paper, dust and ink, all the things she remembers– or maybe imagines – a book should smell of. Peace smells like that, and happy memories.

She knows the book is interesting, having read it two or three times in a common electronic format, but when her eyes begin closing she lets the book drop to the floor and drifts into sleep.

...

When Shepard wakes, there is a blanket over her. She smiles. She could get used to this, she really could. She gets up, then tries to straighten the shirt which has creased and crumpled during her sleep. She gives up pretty quickly and just tugs it down a little, but not too much.

Steven is at the desk, reading something – probably a report – on a datapad, his cap off and his uniform half-unbuttoned. Noticing her, he offers a brief greeting smile.

"I see someone here has been helping me with my job," he remarks.

"Just the easiest parts." She comes closer, touches his shoulder to get his attention and the slides onto his lap, putting her arm around his neck.

"I have some more work to do," he says, shifting so that she would not obscure the datapad from his view.

"Okay," she responds calmly. Then she proceeds to brush her lips against his ear, and a moment later he inhales audibly as her teeth gently scrape his skin.

Steven sighs. "I still have work to do..." Smirking, he puts an arm beneath her knees and the other around her back. "Which, apparently, will have to wait until tomorrow." He lifts her up, though with quite considerable effort.

"I'm that heavy?" she asks, in jest. She is not much shorter than he is, just about an inch and a half maybe, and while she had been an active soldier for over a dozen years before the battle of Earth, being an admiral did not require that much running, shooting, or anything of the kind.

"I'm that out of practice."

He carries her to the bed and lays her down, but she does not let go and pulls him down with her. He puts one hand on the nightstand to brace himself and not fall down onto her, knocking the photo frame standing there over. It lands on the floor with a metallic thud, and though it is a trivial detail, it spoils the mood.

Steven sits on the edge of the bed and picks the frame up. The picture inside is a map of Earth, moulded together from several photos taken by night. Shapes of continents and oceans, bejewelled with thousands of dots of light. Each of these lights represents a city. Each of these lights is gone.

Shepard inches closer, sitting right beside him. Her hand reaches out to brush the photo. What spoiled the mood was that they both know the picture so well, and what it represents, and she very much doubts they will ever be able to forget it.

"We gave Earth up," she says, a sudden wave of deep sorrow crushing over her.

"We had no choice." Gently, almost reverently, he puts the photo back onto the nightstand. Then he puts an arm around her and draws her close, holding her tightly against him, and kisses the top of her head. His lips linger at her hair. "We will come back, Theresa."

She finds his hand and laces her fingers through his. "I know." And she does. He always keeps his word.

A moment later, she climbs onto his lap. She cups his face and looks into his eyes. Then she leans to kiss him. Gently, unhurriedly, as if they had all the time in the world. He returns her kisses, hands sneaking under her shirt to draw lazy circles along her spine, then across her shoulder blades. She half-undoes his shirt, slowly, and puts her hand against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat under her palm. All the while they are exchanging kisses, tender, unhurried. Telling each other how much they care, with no words, using only the Morse code of hands and lips against skin.

"Mind if I sleep in your bed tonight?" she breathes the question into his ear.

"I was about to suggest that." He lies down, pulling her with him. He is still fully clothed, and in the morning there will be wrinkles on his usually flawless uniform. The fact he pays no heed speaks more than words ever could.

She turns in his arms, curling up against him, content, her nose tickling his neck. She does not need more than simple closeness right now, and as he senses the relaxed stillness of her body, the touch of his hands becomes even softer, soothing.

He reaches into the pocket of his uniform and produces a ring; he has probably been planning this for quite a while. "Want me to go down on my knees?"

"No. It's perfectly fine as it is." She takes a deeper breath. "Steven, I don't give a damn about roses, you getting down on your knees, the ring. You know that."

"I would still like you to have it."

Shepard touches the ring, fingertips brushing along the curved line – she recognizes one of the high-performance platinum alloys. Very durable, commonly used for production of long-lasting, precise engineering devices.

She smiles warmly, looking up to meet his eyes. All she feels is there, reflected in his gaze, and with crystal clarity she suddenly knows for certain that it _will _work. Contact binaries are, after all, very stable configurations.

He takes her hand in his and slips the ring onto her finger. "Welcome home, Theresa."

**...**

**THE END**

**...  
**

* * *

This is it: the end of the story. (As you can see, my head-canon ending's colour is fluffy pink ;) )

I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed every minute of writing.

If you liked this fanfic, there's a complimentary story coming. So, stay tuned for more Hackett and some more Shepard in _**Epaulettes**_, a prequel-sequel to _Binary Star_.


End file.
